


Our Hearts Ablaze

by AnonBeMe



Series: The Legend Of Praimfaya [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Earth wind water and fire, F/F, Magic, Wanheda!Clarke, healer!clarke, heda!lexa, my creativity is still on fire (pun still intended), soulbinding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-29 16:27:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14476623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonBeMe/pseuds/AnonBeMe
Summary: The sequel to My Soul Alight – the magic AU in which Lexa is Heda, chosen by the elements to maintain the balance between worlds, and Clarke is Wanheda, chosen by the elements to maintain the balance between life and death.They are the Keepers of Praimfaya, but when a new threat appears, they soon learn, that it is not enough, and Lexa may have to bend a rule or two to keep the kru world safe.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello you!
> 
> It's been a while. I've been looking forward to this day.  
> Here's first chapter for the sequel <3
> 
> Please, let me know what you think?
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme
> 
> ps. I apologize if I spammed you with more than one notification mail. It's the only time it happens :)

# I

 

 

He stands in his father's office, just him and his ceaseless pondering. A worry has infested his mind, but it is hidden behind his schooled calmness, his emotionless eyes. His hands are gently curled fists tucked into the pockets of his neat, black pants, his shoulders are squared and just the right kind of tense to manifest his status; he is the vice president, and inside these goddamn walls, he is not a man you want to even consider to make unhappy. 

The room is dimly lit as he flicked off the light switch upon entering – the faint buzzing from the fluorescents in the ceiling always made his skin itch – and the only light source is the moon shining through the big panoramic window that makes up one entire wall. 

His feet are rooted to the floor as he stands before the window studying the landscape that lies before him. Death and destruction for the most part. The past ten years he has witnessed life burst through cracks in the dry dirt, green sprouts growing into plants and bushes in the red, dusty landscape. For a while it fed him hope, that he would one day experience walking under a starlit sky and feel the breeze in his hair. Then, as he grew into a man, it gave him a vision, that he would one day lead his people, the citizens of Mount Weather out into the sunlit world and conquer it. 

Mount Weather. An underground bunker created to house four hundred people – the president and a select group of men and women – in case of a national emergency. A tragedy happened ninety seven years ago when nuclear plants around the world failed and caused a nuclear wave that ravaged the surface of Earth and extinguished every living creature in its wake.

For ninety-seven years no one has walked the surface of Earth.

The plants may thrive, but the air is still toxic to the human race. No one knows for how long, but to the man now standing in his father's office, it is never reason enough to give up hope. That is the worry that occupies his mind. It always occupies his mind. 

Mount Weather. A safe haven. A prison.

He steps forward, as close to the window he can get without touching it, so close that he can see his own dark irises reflected in the glass, so close that he can almost smell the polluted air on the other side. 

Someday. 

Someday he will walk freely under the sky – be it a blanket of sparkly stars, or a baking hot sun – and he will draw clean, fresh air deep into his lungs, and he will devour it. Then he will lift his face and stretch his arms and yell with all his might that he is a free man, at last, defying his destiny. 

Three rapid knocks on the door. His eyes stay on the moon as he calls, “It's open!” 

There is a metallic click as the door handle is twisted, small and hesitant. He does not need to look to know that whoever just entered his father's office is a terrified soul. He sees his own smile in the reflection, the one that makes people cower before him. 

“Sir?” A voice calls from the doorway, male. 

He knows the voice. Whitman. He was right, a terrified soul, indeed. “Yes?” He speaks, impressed that he does not sound the impatience that tingles at the base of his neck.

“Lowe sent me to get you, Sir. He said there’s an emergency… Erh, by the cranny, Sir.” 

“The cranny,” he copies, an indifferent tone, and he twists his gaze over his shoulder, but he does not meet Whitman’s eyes – he cannot be bothered.

The cranny. That ridiculous cranny that sent this entire place into a frenzy… 

“Yes, Sir.”

“What happened?” 

“Can't say, Sir. Don’t know. It's confidential, he said.”

He catches his own eyes in the window again, fights the urge to sigh deeply. He clenches his jaw once, holds it for three seconds before he slides his hands out of his pockets and turns to go see about this cranny business on Lowe’s request.

“Keep up,” he orders as he passes Whitman. 

He exists his father's office. On the door – in steel and authority – is written:

_President of Mount Weather  
Dante Wallace_

Dante’s son is named Cage, a befitting name to a man forced to stay underground by something as mundane as his DNA. 

Life's irony at its best. 

So goddamn hilarious.

Something else that is hilarious; his father going off to paint and leaving him to deal with… whatever issue Lowe cannot solve himself. 

The cranny. It appeared out of nowhere about a month ago, and some idiot decided to examine it with his fingers. It fried him. He died on the spot. Still, people are curious, want to see what the fuss is about. 

Fools. 

He scoffs as he enters the stairwell. He descends the stairs in a calm pace, and his mind wanders. Natural selection does not exist in this goddamn bunker. Maybe, when he does find a way for his people to walk the earth, will he execute a sort of… _human_ selection. Get rid of all these fools that cannot take care of themselves. Or, maybe he will not have to. Maybe Mother Nature will take care of that business for him after all.

Natural selection. He smiles wryly to himself as he exits the stairwell and steps onto level four – the cranny floor, it has recently been dubbed. 

As he rounds the corner, he wipes his face from emotion, just in time to meet Lowe's gaze. 

“Cage,” Lowe says. His body is formed by military precision, rank and obedient, but his eyes gleam with an impatient excitement that Cage does not know what to read into. 

Lowe, Head of Advanced Technology, is surrounded by his crew of technicians and a heap of flight cases that contain equipment too complex for Cage to fully comprehend their functions. 

No fools in sight, and it pleases Cage. 

“Lowe, what's going on?” 

“This is exciting, Cage, I tell you, this is real exciting. We finally picked up on its frequency,” Lowe says, the gleam of his eyes now pulling a smile from his lips. 

“Frequency?”

“Yes.” Lowe lifts his eyebrows as if expecting the penny to drop any second now. 

Cage tilts his head, just an inch, wondering how long he will have to wait until Lowe realizes his mistake. 

He waits. 

“It's an energy field, Cage,” Lowe says, as if it explains everything, but when Cage keeps looking at him, he clears his throat and gives Cage one last revealing piece of the puzzle. “It's not _our_ energy field.”

“You picked up on an energy field that isn't ours… through the cranny?” 

“Bingo!”

“Congratulations on the achievement, Lowe” Cage says dryly. “Why am I here?” 

“We want to transmit…” Lowe trails off realizing that Cage does not care about the technical details. “We want to communicate with it, and for that we need your approval.”

At that, Cage frowns. “Communicate with it?”

“If there's an energy field that's not ours, it means there’s something, or maybe even someone, in there, or, out there – wherever _there_ is – who has opened up its channel to us, and–”

“–Lowe!” 

“Erh, yes?”

“Get to the point.”

Lowe’s eyes flicker with a shade of panic, he clears his throat again. “Someone may be communicating with us. Do you understand what that means?” 

Cage’s eyes flicker to the cranny. He studies it for a moment, his mind going back to the day it was discovered. 

He was in the mess hall on level five, playing a game of chess with his father when, suddenly, a loud crack rippled through the air and the floor beneath his feet shook. It lasted for only two seconds, but everyone in the mess hall jumped to their feet, ready to take action despite not knowing what kind of action was needed. The seconds that followed were long, and the silence was deafening. Just as everyone began to relax again, a guard came crashing into the mess hall and yelled, “Wallace! We need you on level four. Now!” Both father and son rushed to follow the guard up the stairs and into the hallway in which one wall – sterile and white, and as solid as rock – had suffered a tremendous crack in its surface. A deep crack: the cranny, it was later dubbed. Cage and his father appeared just in time to see Franklin reach out and touch his fingertips to the edge of it, and then, his body violently shaking just before falling limp to the ground; dead. The president then ordered a twenty-four seven watch on location to make sure no one else got hurt. Cage silently thought, that curiosity killed the cat, and if anyone else were dumb enough to copy Franklin, well, by all means, he would not lose sleep over it. 

An image pops in his mind: the window in his father's office with the taunting view of the soil he cannot walk… yet. 

“There's someone on the other side?” Cage asks, his interest piqued. 

“We won't know unless we communicate with it.” 

“How does it work?”

“We open our own energy field, send out a signal, see if they respond to it.”

Cage pulls his eyes off the cranny to meet Lowe's gleaming gaze again. “It sounds… too easy. What are the risks?”

“Low, we presume. It's like a radio signal. The worst that could happen is that we receive an answer. We can shut it off with a touch of a button.”

Cage nods thoughtfully. “You know me, Lowe. I'm a risk taker. But my father is not, and so I have to ask these questions. Can you promise me no more Franklin incidents?”

“Yes.” Immediate and confident. 

Cage eyes the cranny again. “Alright. Do it.”

“Boys!” Lowe calls and spins on his heel to face his crew. “You heard the vice president, get to work.”

“Aye, boss.” A tall, scrawny young man with black, curly hair and big, round glasses walks up to Lowe and hands him a tablet. “Do us the honor and hit the switch.”

Lowe takes the tablet, presses a button and logs onto its system with his finger print. “All set, Tom?” He asks. 

“All set,” Tom confirms with a nod. 

Cage steps closer, steals a glance over Lowe's shoulder. On the tablet’s screen is a panel of buttons. Cage itches to _hit the switch_ , and if he knew which one to press, he would have done so already. Honors, be damned. 

“Three,” Lowe says, and Cage looks up at him.

“Two.” Lowe looks sideways at Cage and smiles. “One,” he says as he taps something on the tablet. 

A buzzing noise fills the air, and a second later, their surroundings brighten significantly. Cage looks in its direction and sees a shimmering veil on the wall, a ten feet long, floor to ceiling area that covers the cranny. 

The sound of high fives mingle with the buzzing, but Cage is too mesmerized to take his eyes off the veil. “What's that?” He asks. 

“That's our energy field,” Lowe says, proud like a father holding his newborn for the first time. 

“So… We're communicating with it now?”

“Tom?” 

“Aye, Boss. We're transmitting… aaaand… hold on… ” Tom holds his own tablet in one hand, the other hovering in the air to punctuate his waiting position. His eyes are narrow, concentrating, and he holds his breath, just like the rest of the crew that awaits his next words.

“Yes!” Tom’s voice has risen a few decibels, his lifted hand is now a fist. He looks at Lowe, a wildness overtaking his face. “Boss, we are communicating.”

“Let me see.” Lowe waves him over with an ecstatic hand, meets him halfway, and an awestruck “oh my” escapes his lips as he examines the information on the screen. 

“See what I see?” Tom asks. 

“I… ye-yes. A gateway?”

“Only one way to find out.” Tom swivels, searches for something. His eyes land on an empty ceramic mug abandoned on the top of a flight case, and he goes to pick it up. Without a word he walks toward the cranny and stops in front of it, more than an arm's length away, respectful of the force of energy they all pray they are able to control. 

Behind him, Cage is standing, unmovable, unable to voice his many questions. He wants to know what the hell is going on, what does Lowe mean by a gateway, and what is Tom planning to do with that mug?

Who is on the other side? 

_Is_ there anyone on the other side? 

Tom answers one of Cage’s questions when he suddenly throws the cup toward the cranny that is still very much visible behind the brightly buzzing veil. 

Cage flinches, everyone flinches – everyone except Tom – as they all expect the mug to crash against the wall and splinter into a million pieces. 

There is a small zapping noise. 

Nothing else. 

No crash, no million pieces. 

No mug.

“Wh–where did it go?” A voice behind Cage says.

Cage spins on his heel and finds himself face to face with Whitman, momentarily confused by his presence until he remembers that Whitman was the one that came to get him. 

“Good question,” Cage says. “Lowe?”

Lowe gapes at the cranny, takes a tentative step forward and lifts his hand as if grasping the empty air between him and the wall will answer his own questions. His mind has theories, one in particular that contains a gateway to another place, or, maybe the same place but in a different time. Another theory is that the energy field is like a black hole, sucking everything that is fed to it into oblivion. He knows too little to answer Cage’s question. He was _hoping_ to pick up a responsive signal, but surely not… 

“A gateway, Tom?” Lowe finally manages. 

“Looks like it.”

“But… How?” 

Tom shrugs, but a small smile plays on his lips. “I have no freaking clue.”

“Lowe!” Cage demands.

“The mug traveled through the gateway, Cage. It's on the other side.”

“Can you retrieve it?” Cage asks, but what he really wants to know is if this gateway can transport people, and if so, can it bring them back as well. For the first time in his life does he dare to imagine the glass wall in his father's office with a door.

Lowe and Tom share a look only they know what means. “Let's find out,” Tom says and goes to fetch another mug. From a flight case he pulls out a wire and ties it to the handle of the mug. The other end he ties to one of the heavy flight cases, making sure the wire is long enough to reach another twenty feet after it goes through the gateway. 

Tom throws the mug into the gateway. No one flinches this time, but they all hold their breath as they watch the wire being sucked into the wall until it lies slack next to Tom's feet. 

“Don't touch it,” Tom says. He pulls a device from his back pocket, crouches by the wire, and holds the device over it and waits. 

A green light on the device flickers.

“Clear.” He slides the device back into his back pocket and grabs the wire. He pulls gently and marvels by how it feels like pulling an object across the floor, an uneven surface, really. “There's definitely a gravitational pull. Same direction as here.” He keeps pulling at the wire until the mug tumbles into view and makes a clonky noise against the floor. 

The vice president, a low-ranked guard, and an entire crew of technicians are all staring at Tom as he picks up the mug – it is intact, but a bit of dirt sticks to its surface. Hearts are brutally thrumming against ribcages, and questions are piling up in disbelieving minds.

“Lance,” Tom says, “will you set up a camera feed? Let's attach it to the mug, see if we can get eyes on whatever is on the other side. And maybe we can retrieve some of this dirt and take down to the lab for testing.”

“Yep.” Lance fetches a camera and goes about attaching it to the mug.

Everyone seems to know what they are supposed to be doing; everyone except Cage. Patience was never a virtue of his, and when his eyes land on Whitman again, an idea strikes him. 

It's reckless. Inhumane, some would say. Cage, however, calls it human selection. 

He walks up to the cranny, pretending to want to examine the veil up close. “Whitman,” he calls, “come have a look at this.”

“Yes, Sir. What is it?” Whitman takes a stand next to Cage and focuses his eye on whatever spot he decides Cage is examining.

“I think I can see trees… Can you?”

“Uh,” Whitman narrows his eyes, focuses harder. “Where?” 

“Right here.” Cage points and takes step back so Whitman can take a better look. 

When Whitman moves a step closer, Cage moves behind him, and without hesitation, he pushes the guard into the veil, into the cranny. 

Whitman screams. Then he is gone. 

“What did you do?” Lowe yells, exasperated. 

“What you aren't able to.” Cage slides his hands into his pockets, eyes glued to the cranny. “Come get me if he returns, and if my father asks, Whitman tripped over the wire.” He spins on his heel and walks away, back to his father's office.

 

°*°

 

Whitman screams. A tingling travels along his skin as he passes through the veil. His vision blurs, and then he is hurled through the air. Or so it feels like. 

He has absolutely no control of anything. 

He wants to see, _needs_ to see, so he can find his footing, but his eyes are forced shut as nausea builds in his gut. 

Then, as fast as it began, it all ends. 

He finds himself on all four, cowardly digging his fingers into the dirt under his hands as if it would make the world stop spinning. 

Dirt. 

The first thing his eyes focus on is a mug lying sideways, as if tumbled over, on the ground before him. Then he lifts his gaze, and what greets him takes his breath away. Before him lies a patch of green, bigger than a football field – or at last how big he imagines a football field would be. Trees stand tall along its edge, and above them, the sun shines brighter than any light he has ever seen. 

The sky is a bright orange with the occasional streak of green. It looks like a painting, but Whitman soon finds that he can feel the breeze cool his skin, and he can smell soil that is moist and grainy against his palms. 

This is very real. 

He tries to get up. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself off the ground. His head is spinning again, and the nausea digs deeper. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a pillar, just two feet away, and as he fights to keep his balance, he reaches out to steady himself. 

The second his palm presses against the cold surface, a wave of agonizing pain ripples through his body. 

His vision becomes white. 

Then black. 

Then nothing.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you!
> 
> Finally, second chapter is ready <3  
> Before I send you off to read it, I have a small announcement. Due to private matters I'm not sure I'll be able to post updates once a week - at least not right now. So this is how it's going to be: I have five drafted chapters on my desk at all times. Once I finish drafting a new chapter, I will upload the next one. My chapters are short (between 2k and 4k words) because I don't want you to wait too long on updates. I reckon one chapter every one and a half weeks is doable... should be no more than two weeks.
> 
> Just know that I'm doing this as to not put pressure on myself. Writing is my escape, and I need and want it to be a positive thing. That's the only way i'll be able to deliver you new exciting chapters :)
> 
> But let's move on. Last chapter, Cage pushed Whitman through the cranny. I was expecting someone to yell at me for not writing Clarke and Lexa in the first chapter. However, all I received was nice comments and excitement. So thank you for being the best readers out there. I really appreciate your support :)
> 
> Speaking of Clarke and Lexa... let's see what they're up to, shall we?
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# II

 

 

The plaza is bustling with life. All the clans are represented as they visit the market to trade goods, or to simply have a good time. The atmosphere is rich and exuberant, and joyful voices fill the air. 

Lexa stands atop the marble stairs, hands clasped behind her back as she observes the scene before her. A shimmering bright, gray coat catches her attention, and she cannot help the pride in her heart, and the smile on her lips. Finally, a complete, united kru.

“Did I not tell you to go home, Heda?” Indra approaches and takes a stand next to Lexa. 

“You did.”

“You want a report of the meeting,” Indra states. 

“I do.”

“Roan is doing very well. He worries that not all azgedakru will learn to trust you as a leader, but I told him it is more important that they trust _him_ as a leader.”

Lexa nods, slow and thoughtful. “They are here, Indra. Azgedakru.”

“I see them,” Indra says, eyes traveling over the plaza. “I did not expect it so soon.”

“I dared not hope.”

Indra hums in agreement. “Anything else, Heda?” 

“No. Mochof, Indra.”

“Go home, Heda. Rest up.” Indra shares a sideways glance with Lexa, chuckling under her breath as she finds a stubborn fire burning in her leader's eyes. “Go home,” she repeats before walking down the marble stairs and vanishing into the crowd. 

Lexa allows herself another moment to appreciate the sight before her, and then she, too, walks down the stairs. She does not go home, not yet. Instead, she heads straight to Isaac’s vendor stall with the marvellous wood carved birds hanging from the sand colored roof. 

“Heda,” Isaac greets, dipping his head in a small bow.

“Hello, Isaac. How are you today?” Lexa returns his bow.

“I am fine, Heda. Did you come to pick up your package?”

“Is it ready?”

“Sha, it is, Heda.” Isaac crouches to reach under the table. His smile is shy, and his eyes are proud, as he holds out a rolled-up ball of fabric. 

“Water silk?” Lexa leans closer to study the fabric, the unique blend of an ocean blue and a forest green; it shimmers in the sunlight. A crease forms between her eyes. “Isaac, I cannot–”

“Please, Heda, it is a gift for Clarke.”

“It is very valuable.”

“Yes, but it is priceless to Clarke,” Isaac says, his voice tender. “Please. Jake was like family to me.”

“Mochof, Isaac.” Lexa bows for him, grants him her deepest gratitude, before accepting his gift. The fabric is soft in her hands, and wrapped inside it she can feel the curve of the object she had requested Isaac to make for her – also a gift for Clarke. 

Isaac's products are always of the finest quality, so Lexa sees no reason to peek inside. Instead, she tugs it closer to her chest, fighting off the urge to run off to find Clarke. “Did Anya deliver your payment?”

“Sha, Heda.”

“Is it… satisfactory?”

“Sha. Even more so.”

“I am pleased.” 

Lexa smiles and bids him farewell with a small nod, which he returns. She glances up at the sun, tugs the package under her arm, and walks back through the crowd. 

Instead of going back to the tower, Lexa walks around it to find the small paths that will guide her home. She knows that Anya moves in her periphery keeping an eye out for any sort of trouble, and she knows that when she rounds the large tree by her home, Anya will retreat, giving her the privacy neither she nor Clarke ever asked for, but is grateful to be granted nonetheless.

As Lexa passes through the invisible veil that hides her home, the kru mark behind her ear tingles. The glow of her soulbound builds in her core, and her eyes are drawn to Clarke sitting on a tree stub binding herbs, the tip of her tongue playing at the corner of her lips, and eyes glued to her hands at work. 

“Nyko?” Lexa asks as she sits on the tree stub next to Clarke. 

Clarke looks up, blinking, surprised as she did not hear Lexa approach her. “Oh, hey. Yeah, yes, homework.”

Lexa glances at the basket by Clarke's feet, filled to the brim, and then some, with a large variety of leaves and herbs and berries. “A lot of homework.” 

Clarke chuckles. “He's testing me. I am to bind them, categorize them, and, when we meet again, I am to name them and their function.”

“Any of it poisonous?” Lexa leans down to take a closer look, at the same time hiding Clarke's gift with her upper body. 

“No, Nyko said that was another test for another time.” 

Clarke suspects that Lexa already knows the answer, and her suspicion is confirmed when Lexa, with a playful smile and sneaky fingers snatches a couple of flameberries from the basket. 

“Lexa!” Clarke tries to shove away Lexa's hand, but Lexa is quick, and the berries are crushed between teeth before she gets to her. “If Nyko mentions they're gone, don't think I won't rat you out, _Heda_.”

Lexa grins; a comical sight. Pure, innocent childishness wrapped up in the austerity of Heda’s black coat with the red color of honor on one shoulder. It is a rare sight, one that Clarke adores. The two personas do not often merge into one, but when they do, Lexa glows, and it is beautiful.

Something shimmers, blue and green, and it catches Clarke’s eye. “What’s that?” 

“It is a gift.” Lexa hands it to Clarke, and watches as Clarke places the bundled herbs back into the basket to free her hands, then curious fingers take their time brushing against the fabric. 

“It's the softest thing I've ever…” Clarke says under her breath, too mesmerized to finish her sentence. 

“Water silk.”

“Water silk?” Clarke's eyes fleet to meet Lexa’s. She first heard about it in one of her father's stories, about the river clan whose purpose was to extract the silk from freshwater crawlers – creatures that look much like see-through spiders the size of a fist and live in fissures in cliff walls. As a child, Clarke had loved the idea of spiders translucent like jellyfish. They could hardly look scary like that. It was Lexa who told her about the tragic destiny of the crawlers, about the river clan who discovered much too late, that the crawlers lived in secluded areas only, and that the silk extraction caused a drastic decrease in numbers. If they did not want to cause extinction of the crawlers, they had to slow down, if not entirely stop, the extraction of silk. 

“I thought it didn't exist anymore,” Clarke says. 

“It does, but it is very rare. It takes many sunrauns – too many to count – to collect enough for a shawl like this.”

“It's beautiful, much more beautiful than I had imagined.” Clarke looks at it again, catches a corner between her fingers, and feels the delicate smoothness caress her skin. 

Lexa presses it into her hands, and Clarke looks at her with wide eyes. “It's for me?” 

“Sha, Keryon,” Lexa murmurs, and when Clarke blushes, she smiles and says, “it is from Isaac.”

“Isaac?”

“Yes. Because your father was family to him, he said.”

The shawl is rolled up and lies heavy in Clarke's hands. She may have never touched water silk before, but she understands that it is much too delicate, much too thin, to ever become as heavy as a… a big light stone, perhaps. She presses both hands into the shawl and discovers it has a solid core. Confusion furrows her brow, and Lexa lets out an airy chuckle. 

“Unwrap it, Clarke.”

“What is it?” 

“If truth is not shown, it must be hidden.” Lexa's voice is playful as she quotes Nyko’s favorites riddle. 

With a small sigh, one that makes Lexa laugh, Clarke returns to the shawl and whatever it is wrapped around. She unwraps the first layer, then another, but the way the almost see-through fabric shimmers in the light distracts Clarke from the task of unfolding her gift. 

Just for a moment. 

As she unwraps the last layer, she finds a wooden bowl carved in the richest dark red wood Clarke has ever laid eyes on. It is not a bowl, no, the shell is much thinner with miniscule holes drilled into it everywhere. 

Clarke's wheels are turning, and because Lexa is in a playful mood, Clarke decides to match it. “I think our new salad bowl is broken.”

Lexa shakes her head, and her smile grows wide. She watches as Clarke lifts it up against the light, her eyes wondrous and confused, until, at last, they widen with the realization of what it is. 

“I know you miss Polis, and while I cannot bring you there, I wanted to bring a part of Polis to you,” Lexa says. 

Clarke gapes at the half orb in her hands. Held up against the light, it looks like a dark canvas on which the minuscule drilled holes sprinkle speckles of light. 

She gapes at it for a long time. 

“Lexa, this is…” Clarke pulls her eyes from the small galaxy in her hands to look at Lexa, and for the first time since she sat down, Clarke is not distracted by kru botany lessons, or gorgeous craftsmanship. She is fully focused on her soulbound as if nothing else ever existed. “You look tired. Is everything okay?” 

As if Clarke's words unveiled a hidden truth, Lexa's face falls into exhaustion. Her eyes are droopy, the surrounding skin, dark. A yawn threatens to break her jaw open, but she refuses, clenches around it until it hurts. 

“Yes, all is well. Indra’s negotiations with the ambassadors lasted much longer than anticipated, and I wanted a report on Roan’s meeting before I left.”

In a gesture that seems almost muscle memory, Clarke reaches out to run a palm down the red fabric on Lexa's shoulder, and with the same hand, she trails fingertips down Lexa's arm until she finds a hand to entangle with. Clarke gives it a squeeze. “How did it go?”

“We disagree on matters, but we also disagree on matters with the other clans. And he is stubborn like his mother.” Something cold flashes in Lexa's eyes, but as quickly as it came, just as quickly is it gone. “But I am stubborn too. He is still learning to become a leader, but where his mother frightened the azgedakru to show her respect, he earns it by hard work. He _listens_ to them, their needs. I think he will do well.”

Lexa's last word is cut off by a yawn so forceful it waters her eyes.

“Okay, come on.” Clarke grabs the shawl, marvels at the softness in her hands before she wraps it around her neck, just once, the ends hanging loose over her shoulders. She rises to her feet and extends a hand to Lexa. “Come on,” she repeats wiggling her fingers. 

A sleepy Heda complies. 

Clarke pulls her back inside and into their bedroom. As she sets down the hole-speckled shell on the small table, her eyes linger on the book lying next to it: her father's copy of The Hobbit, now Lexa's copy. She has read it twice already, still, she insists to keep it by her bed. It brings Clarke comfort knowing that Lexa did meet him once. It makes it easier to accept she never got a chance to introduce them. 

As Clarke turns around to face Lexa, she finds that the tired leader has already sat down on the bed, slumped forward, shoulders curved inward as if her spine is not able to keep her upright. 

“Hey,” Clarke murmurs, lifting Lexa's face with fingers under her chin. 

As their eyes meet, Lexa lifts a closed hand and says, “Roan brought samples of their light stones.”

Clarke opens her palm, and Lexa drops four tiny stones into it. They are oval-shaped, and the smooth, glass-like surface is almost transparent, the core is milky white. 

“They can only be extracted from the underground below the ice caves,” Lexa says, as Clarke examines them. “Now Ice Nation has joined the united kru, their light stones will become an available commodity for everyone.”

“He agreed to that?”

“He offered.”

Clarke hums, impressed and excited. “They work like normal light stones?”

Lexa does not answer, she simply looks at Clarke with that expression she always wears when mentoring Aden. 

_‘Sometimes you will face obstacles you do not know how to pass, and sometimes you do not have the privilege to ignore it, or the time to sit back and ponder, or a mentor to tell you what to do. Sometimes you must take a risk. Trust your instinct.’_

It has become an important mantra in Clarke's life, that healing energy is a good energy, and thus, no bad can come of it. So Clarke curls her fingers around the tiny stones, holds them in a gentle fist, and then she heals them. She sends the purest of energy she knows into them, and they respond with the purest of light that fights to slip through the gaps between her fingers. It flows bright and warm, like when she was a child and held a lit flashlight against her hand. 

Slowly, Clarke uncurls her fingers, and she watches as the warmth morphs into the whitest light she has ever seen. 

On the bed, Lexa sits with a gentle smile on her lips as she observes Clarke. Lexa remembers her own first experience with the azgeda stones. The lack of color had taken her by surprise, because in Lexa's mind, strength and vibrant colors were interchangeable. Costia always carried a handful around – she said, that while azgedakru was not her kru, not anymore, the terrain of Ice Nation was still her home, her roots, the place that gifted her with kru energy, and the stones served as a reminder of that. She gave Lexa one to remember her by when they could not be together, and Lexa cherished it as she cherished Costia's love. But after her death, Lexa buried it deep into the ground by the large tree where they always met to be alone. To honor her. Costia's energy belonged to no one but the elements, and Lexa decided the same went for the azgeda stone. 

A thumb brushes against Lexa's cheek, and she blinks, bringing her mind back to focus on Clarke. She looks up into her face, into blue eyes that sparkle in the bright light. 

“They remind you of her?” Clarke asks. 

“Yes,” Lexa says, “of her strength.”

Clarke nods, seems to understand that these memories do not bring Lexa pain, seems to feel it in her core. She places the light stones on the table and crawls onto the bed to kneel behind Lexa. With soft fingers, she pulls Lexa's hair out of its braid and tugs the coat off her shoulders. 

Lexa helps as best she can, too drowsy to ever make a difference. Another yawn rips her jaw open just as her arms break free from the sleeves. “I feel like an invalid,” she mumbles. 

“The most powerful invalid wizard,” Clarke says as she lays the coat at the end of the bed.

Lexa sighs, relenting, because Clarke once told her that our weaknesses are our strengths as well, and that knowing our limits means we can control when to exceed them and when not to. And while Lexa may not fully agree, she knows that Clarke is the most stubborn of the two and will always win the discussion. Lexa would argue that Heda does not have the privilege to sleep whenever she pleases, and Clarke would then argue that a Heda drained from energy is not much of a Heda at all. Lexa would have more arguments ready, but Clarke will always look at her with that disarming smile of hers and say ‘let me take care of you when you're too busy to do it yourself’, and Lexa possesses no armor to defend herself against the purpose that shines in Clarke's eyes. So she relents. 

Clarke kisses her on the cheek and shifts toward the table, but Lexa stops her with a small touch to her arm. 

“Lay down,” Lexa says.

“But–”

“–This is my gift to you, and I want you to receive it as I intended to deliver it. Lay down.”

And so Clarke lays down, anticipation gleaming in her eyes as her hands find the ends of the shawl still wrapped around her neck, fingers brushing against the soft silk. 

“You wear it with grace,” Lexa says, thinking that Isaac was right when he said it would be priceless to Clarke. 

They share a soft smile, and then Lexa picks up the wooden bowl. “Close your eyes,” she says, and when Clarke does as told, Lexa inactivates the light stones that float in their metal cages in the corners of her bedroom. 

The only light source left is the azgeda stones on the table, and Lexa places the bowl bottoms up over them. The room darkens as if a blanket has been pulled over the world, and Lexa looks up at the ceiling and smiles – it is much better than she had hoped. She shifts to lie down next to Clarke who is squeezing her eyes hard and biting her lip. 

“Open your eyes,” Lexa whispers, keeping her eyes on Clarke's as they flutter open and widen with surprise. 

The entire room is covered in speckles of light like tiny stars sparkling in the night sky. Clarke’s breath catches in her throat. “This is…” Clarke murmurs, not even a whisper. 

“…the stars of Polis City.”

“I…” 

“Do you like it?” 

“Lexa,” Clarke sighs, a tear escaping the corner of her eye. She rolls sideways, into Lexa, allowing arms to wrap her up as she buries her face in Lexa’s neck.

Sometimes, when Clarke passes Tondisi Hill, a terrible ache builds in her chest. She misses Polis City, her best friend and partner in crime, Raven, and, despite the strained relationship she has with her mother, she misses her too. Sometimes, when she misses her father, she longs to sneak away through the portal to go and sit under the stars. It is not homesickness, because Clarke is already home, but a familiarity her soul will never forget, does not want to forget.

There they lie, with stars twinkling above them in their own little world, while Clarke’s heart clenches and her lungs ache, until Lexa presses a kiss against her hair, and she whispers a frail “mochof” in return. 

The shawl gathers the moist from her breath. When it gets too hot and her skin itches, she takes it off and leaves it on the bed, behind her, still within reach. She looks at Lexa and finds emerald eyes that still seem bright in the dark. They are soft, softer than the water silk her skin still remembers. And Clarke cups her cheek with a hand, needing something palpable to hold onto. 

“Will you teach me about the constellations?” Lexa asks.

Clarke nods and presses a kiss to her lips. It has been too many years since she sat under a starlit Polis night with her father as he told her the stories of stars and myths and heroes. Some of them have faded from her memory, but not all of them, and yes, she will pass them onto Lexa. “But not now. You need to rest.”

Lexa nods, rests her forehead against Clarke’s and closes her eyes. “Later,” she mumbles.

Only seconds pass before Lexa’s breath evens out and sleep washes over her. Clarke is not tired, but the calm beating of Lexa’s heart thrums in Clarke’s veins and hums like a lullaby. It takes only seconds before Clarke, too, drifts off.

 

°*°

 

_“Heda!”_

A loud banging.

Lexa’s eyes shoot open as she sits up in the bed, momentarily dazed by the stars in the ceiling and Clarke’s sleepy “what’s going on?”. 

_“Heda!”_

More loud banging. 

Lexa recognizes the voice and the urgency. She springs to her feet and is out the bedroom door before a third round of yelling and banging begins. 

“Anya, what is going on?” Lexa pulls the bedroom door shut behind her as to not disturb Clarke further.

“The scouts have returned from their routine patrolling in the mountains. They…” Anya’s eyes fleet to the bedroom door that swings open, revealing a frowning Clarke. “Heda,” she says, looking at Lexa. “There is an emergency. You are needed by the healer quarters.”

“The healer quarters?” Lexa’s eyes narrow with confusion, but Anya’s piercing glare tells her that it is a matter so urgent that only Heda must lay ears to it. “Okay, give me a moment, I will get ready.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Anya says, then spins on her heel and leaves the room.

Lexa slides past Clarke, back into the bedroom to grab her coat that still lies on the bed. She slides past Clarke again, coat already on, hands busy pulling her hair into a braid. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, stopping Lexa with a hand to her abdomen. “What’s going on?”

“I do not know, but I need you to stay here until I get back, or until I send someone for you. Promise me, Clarke.”

Clarke does not appreciate being told what to do, but she recognizes the fear in Lexa’s voice as if it was her own, and so she nods, steps forward to press a kiss to her jawline. “Okay. Just… be careful.”

“Sha,” Lexa whispers. She clenches her jaw and squares her shoulders, and with Heda’s duty burning in her eyes, she hurries after Anya.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to see how many of you have found your way to the sequel <3  
> I'm looking so much forward to unravel the story of this one!
> 
> Are you ready for chapter 3?  
> Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# III

 

 

A small crowd of puzzled faces and whispered gossip has gathered outside the main cabin at the healer quarters. 

Someone claims to have seen Heda’s scouts carrying a wounded man into the cabin, and another insists that Nyko rushed in after them, only to come back out a minute later to send a messenger off to the tower. No one heard what he said, but many have quoted him.

Nyko had stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and frustration boiling in his eyes as the crowd refused to dissolve. Eventually he had given up and gone inside to lock the door, but it only fed more thrill to the curious crowd. 

“Was it azgeda?” A man asks, his voice sharp and venomous. 

“No.” The answer falls pronto from the man who claims to have witnessed the scouts carry the wounded man into the cabin.

“How do you know?” A third voice enters the discussion. 

“It was not azgeda clothes. It was…” The man frowns as he searches his memory. “I have not seen clothes like it before.”

“But,” another begins, but is interrupted by a voice of authority. 

“Break up!”

Heads snap toward the voice they recognize very well, and their eyes widen as they see not just one, but four figures clad in black coats and determination storming their way. They are Heda's second in command and three guards, one of which is Heda's most trusted. 

Dipping their head in submission, everyone takes a few steps back to let them through. Indra knocks on the door while Anya orders the guards to not let anyone in, and to keep a clear perimeter outside the door. Then they vanish into the cabin while the two guards take their position, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door. 

The crowd is silent. No one breathes, no one moves. Everyone gapes at the narrow space between the two guards wishing they could see through walls. They seem entranced, so much that they startle when the door swings open again and Anya rushes past the guards, off to who knows where.

All eyes are glued to Anya’s back as she disappears between the trees.

“She is sending for Heda,” someone says, but not the only one thinking it. 

“Azgeda did it,” a man hisses. “That is the only explanation.”

“Shof op, Teevus. Do not spread rumors. We know nothing.” 

“It is always azgeda, Lavo. They are bad seeds.” A woman takes position next to Teevus as to back him up.

“Mila,” Lavo says, lifting his hands palm up. “I do not say azgeda is innocent. I say that you must wait to condemn a man until you are certain that he is the one with blood on his hands, or you may well condemn the wrong man and let a natrona walk free. Be patient. We will learn of the truth soon enough.”

Mila’s eyes fall to her feet, and when she looks back up, she gives Lavo a small nod before turning to Teevus. “Teev,” she murmurs, touching his arm. “He is right. Let us not rush to a conclusion.”

Teevus considers, defiance burning in his eyes. He nods once, says nothing, and pushes through the crowd to take a stand in the back line.

Another wave of silence washes over the crowd. They wait. They wait long enough to grow idle and bored, and for the gossip to touch other matters. Harmless gossip. Rumors of love affairs that may or may not be true. A handful of parallel stories mash together into one as someone mentions the skai girl who stays with Heda. 

“Klork?” 

“Clarke.”

Everyone has an opinion on the skai girl. She is often found by Heda's side, and that alone is a good enough reason for stories to be born - true or not, does not matter. 

“She does not belong here.”

“She is a healer, Nyko’s apprentice. A powerful one.”

“A skai girl with kru energy? That is unheard of. She must have… tricked Heda.”

“I have seen her heal the sick. It is kru energy.”

“They say she is the daughter of Jake Kom Trikru.”

“Who?”

“Jake Griffin.”

Everyone knows the name. Griffin. Jake's chosen surname as he gave up his kru identity to become a skai man. They all know the story: Jake saw a beautiful creature painted on a brick wall in Polis City. The creature was a gryphon, a blend of a lion and an eagle – both majestic creatures of Skai Houd – and he fell in love with it, was infatuated by the myths of Polis City, and so it became his surname. While everyone believes the story to be true, it has never been confirmed. Just like the rumor that he was Heda's spy in Polis City has not been confirmed either. Despite him leaving the kru world behind, he is still remembered as an honorable man, and honorable people raise their children to become honorable as well. 

The mention of Jake’s name silences the crowd. There is a pregnant pause in which each individual considers this new piece of information. The conversation is not over, it may well never be when it comes to the skai girl who stays with Heda, but before anyone can voice their thoughts, their focus shifts to more urgent matters taking place at the back of the crowd. 

People step aside to make room for Anya who approaches the door with a thunderous glare and Heda in tow. 

The guards step aside to let them in.

No one knows what to make of it. 

So they wait.

 

°*°

 

The cabin door swings shut behind Lexa. She follows Anya down a corridor and through a door on her left, and as she steps over the threshold, she scans the small examination room. Five people. No threats. Nyko and Indra stand side by side, eyes focused on the bed in front of them as they talk in low voices. Two scouts stand on the other side of the bed, exhaustion clear on their faces, still, they keep their chin high as duty prevails.

The fifth person lies on the bed.

“Heda.” A collective greeting from the entire room.

Lexa takes a stand by the foot of the bed, her eyes immediately caught by the sight before her. A man lies on the bed. He is wearing dark clothes, almost black – navy blue, they call it in Polis City. The color does not spring from the soil, and so the color is not used for kru clothes. They are simple but unusual clothes. A collared button down shirt tucked into pants, a thick black belt, shoes with a sturdy sole – he looks like a skai man, a guard, perhaps. Onto his chest is pinned a small white rectangular object with black writing: D. Whitman. His skin is pale as if his soul has been sucked from its vessel. The man is not unconscious; he is dead. 

“Skai man?” Lexa asks – Anya had told her nothing except that it was an emergency. 

There is no immediate response, not even from Indra. It pulls Lexa’s focus away from the dead man. She looks at her second in command and is met with a rare sight. Indra struggles, not to speak, but to grasp the reality of this situation. Lexa sees it in her eyes, and so she braces herself for what is to come.

Indra’s eyes fleet between Lexa and the scouts. At last, they fall upon the scouts. “Tell Heda what you told me.”

“We found him by the foot of the gray mountain.”

“Biga Maun?” Lexa asks, referring to the largest of the gray giants that pierce through the ground not far from Ice Nation’s border.

“Sha. He was already dead when we found him.”

Lexa furrows her brows. A skai man, it makes no sense. “Kru mark?” She asks, looking at her healer.

“I cannot find any,” Nyko says. 

“There is more, Heda,” the scout says. 

“Go on.”

“There are new obelisks. Two. They come out of the cliff wall.”

Lexa connects the dots in a split second, long before the icy tingling travels from her neck to the base of her spine. In all kru history, obelisks have meant only one thing. No book in Titus’ library speaks of another kind. 

The realization dawns on her: this is all her fault.

Out of habit, her eyes seek out Anya's like the many times a young Lexa needed her mentor. And if the worry in those familiar brown eyes are anything to go by, Anya has connected the dots as well. 

“A new portal,” Lexa says.

Anya nods, a bitter twist of her mouth. She hears what Lexa does not dare to speak out loud. Only three people know the truth of what Lexa had to do to defeat Nia Kom Azgeda: Lexa, Clarke, and Anya. If the scouts are right, that new obelisks have risen…

“We also found this artifact.” The scout lifts a hand, his eyes glued to the object, deliberately not looking at Heda as if worried he was not allowed to interrupt.

Lexa looks at him, looks at his hand, and frowns when she sees what it is. She takes it, turns it over in her hands. Her frown deepens. “Mount Weather,” she mumbles as she reads the black inscription in the bottom. “It is a mug,” she says, and looks at Indra.

Indra shrugs, a bewildered shake of her head. “It must belong to him.”

The mug is heavy in Lexa’s hand, the truth heavy in her heart. She looks from the mug to the man on the bed. “Do we know how he died?”

“No,” Nyko says. “His body is intact, no wounds. It looks like a heart attack, but I cannot say if it was natural, or caused by…” He gestures with his hands, a distraught motion to fill out the blanks. In his time as a healer, he has never seen a death like this. The body tells him nothing. “I am at a loss.”

Lexa is at a loss, too, but not as much as Nyko. Her focus slips inward, into the deepest corners of her mind. Someone without a kru mark has most likely traveled through a new portal and into her territory. There is a potential threat against their safety, and it needs to be dealt with. 

She knows too little to create a solution, so for now, there is only one thing to do.

“Indra,” Lexa says, looking to her second in command. “I need you to prepare an expedition to the gray mountain. We must go and have a look at these new obelisks. I will need guards as you see fit for protection.”

“Sha, Heda.”

“Anya, find Lincoln. Ask him if Mount Weather means anything to him. I need to know if it came from Skai Houd,” she says, curling her fingers around the mug in a tight grip.

“Sha, Heda.”

“Rest up.” Heda looks at the scouts. “I need you with me. You have been there, your experience is valuable.”

“Sha, Heda,” they speak in unison.

“I will leave the guards by the door. We do not want anyone to see the body, not yet. Nyko, I want you on the expedition as well, bring a helper as you see fit.” 

As Nyko voices a “sha, Heda”, Lexa looks at everyone in the room, one at a time. 

“Be at the meeting spot when the sun hangs over Faya Maun, and we will begin our journey. Any questions or concerns, talk to Indra.” 

Lexa casts one last glance at the dead man, and she asks herself if he is the only one who passed through this seemingly new portal. Are there more intruders out there, or perhaps more on the way? Where do they come from? What do they want? How dangerous are they?

For the first time in a long time, she feels the mark of Praimfaya burn on her wrist, a sharp heat to remind her of the duty she was chosen to do. The Keeper, chosen to maintain the balance between worlds. 

“We need Titus there as well,” she says, bringing her focus back to the small examination room. “I will get him.”

With a silent nod, she turns on her heel and leaves the room. She exits the cabin, the mug still in her hand. The sun casts a sharp brightness on her world, and Lexa squints against it as she presses through the two guards outside the door. As she adjust to the light, she finds roughly twenty set of eyes staring at her, wide and curious. 

“Back to work,” she says, a command no one dares to defy. “Or go home. Allow Nyko’s team the space they need.” 

The crowd shifts, people step aside and away, a low murmur of disappointment follows in their wake. Teevus stays put, letting everyone walk past him while he keeps his stare locked on Heda. He is tall, his eyes are sharp, and his jaw is tense. “Did azgeda do it?” He asks.

“No,” Lexa says. No hesitation, no emotion. 

“Then who did it?”

“There is no guilty party, Teevus. He was victim to an unfortunate accident,” she says and walks up to him. She looks up into his dark eyes that holds a storm she used to know intimately. Hating azgeda is easy, she knows, but to condemn an entire clan based on a few bad individuals is never fair. She would not be Heda if she encouraged such a behavior. 

Teevus seems to consider her words. Acceptance flashes in his eyes, but is soon swallowed by the darkness of his hatred. “Sha, Heda,” he says and dips his head. 

The tone of his voice carries a hint of disdain, just enough for Lexa to pick up on it. She steps closer to him, close enough that the red fabric on her shoulder brushes against his chest. 

“Do you call me a liar, Teevus?” Her voice is calm, but demanding.

“No, Heda.”

“But you do not trust me to speak the truth.”

“I want to punish the natrona,” he says, almost hissing.

“There is no natrona. Not this time.”

Lexa holds his gaze until he blinks and takes a step back. “Sha, Heda,” he says, this time obedient. He folds his hands behind his back, a gesture of resignation. 

Lexa nods, relieved. This is not the first discussion she has had with Teevus. She knows he is an angry soul, and that he tends to speak before he thinks, but his voice is his weapon – his only weapon – and so Lexa does not consider him a threat of any kind. But he is resilient, and he drives a hard bargain. To make him stand back, she needs to offer him something, anything, a piece of the truth so he does not feel left in the dark. Because Lexa knows that anger thrives in the dark. Teevus may be harmless now, but she cannot promise he will continue to be. With Azgeda joining the united kru, he will have to learn to accept their existence. For now, Teevus seems to accept what little she can offer, and she hopes it is enough to keep him away from investigating the truth about the dead stranger inside the cabin. There are truths linked to the stranger that Lexa cannot share with anyone, least of all a rebellious mind like Teevus’. It will bring panic, and if panic rises, keeping her people safe will become a much more difficult task. 

In the corner of an eye, twenty feet away, Lexa sees a young woman with golden hair trying not to eavesdrop – the gentleness to Teevus’ chaos. 

“Mila is waiting for you,” Lexa says, inwardly smiling at the softness that overtakes his face by the mention of her name. 

Teevus turns to look at Mila, and Lexa takes it as her cue to leave the scene. She has matters to attend to. Grave matters. First she needs to talk to Titus, then she needs to face Clarke. Lexa cannot say what scares her the most: the uncertainty of what she will find at the gray mountain, or having to tell Clarke that she is to be chaperoned by guards while she is gone. 

 

°*°

 

The quiet encapsulates Clarke. She sits on top of their hobbit home, cross-legged, hands resting on knees, and eyes shut. The air is filled with a faint chirping from a shadow singer, soft like the wisp of a breeze that caresses her bare skin. 

As Clarke first observed this new world, she found it odd how the wind, for the most part, was non-existent, at least near the tower. She mentioned it to Lexa, and Lexa brought her up here and told her to close her eyes. “Everything moves, Clarke, even the air. Sometimes it runs, sometimes it crawls. Slow your breathing, become one with the stillness, and you will feel it.”

It took practice, more than Clarke's patience seemed up for, but with time she would sit on top of their small hill, and the grass would no more tickle her bare feet, and the restlessness would no longer itch under her skin. Her heart would find a calm rhythm, almost dormant, leaving room for her senses to stretch.

Like now. She inhales, holds it in, and exhales. A repetitive motion imprinted into her muscles – something she will never forget, like riding a bike. 

The air moves against her skin, and if Clarke concentrates hard, she can hear the subtle _whoosh_ in its wake. It clears her mind and helps her to understand the emotions that shoot through her body. 

It makes time pass. 

Time. Another thing that feels like riding a bike. Clarke sometimes finds herself checking the watch that is no longer strapped to her wrist. But while a sunraun is twenty-four hours, it means nothing to this place. Just like the wind, everything else moves in whatever pace seems fit, and not by a sunraun schedule. 

But it does not change the fact that Lexa has been gone for a long time. Clarke knows, even without opening her eyes, that the sun is not far from passing the endless desert, which makes it half a sunraun since she left. 

Clarke feels fear in her core, Lexa's fear, and she worries what it means. Something is definitely wrong, and if Clarke had not promised her she would stay put until she came back, she would have left to seek her out a long time ago. 

She inhales, holds it in, and exhales.

Time is fluent.

The sun is static, advancing in its steady pace across the horizon. 

A warmth spreads in her chest and brightens her mood. The fear is pushed aside by an overwhelming tenderness, and Clarke knows she has only seconds to soak it up before Lexa appears by her side. She inhales once more and feels the warmth travel down her spine and spread into fingertips and toes. The smile on her lips linger until the very moment she feels Lexa sit down next to her.

When Clarke opens her eyes, she is yet again unhappy with being a prisoner in her own home. She means to tell her. She means to explain that Lexa may be Heda, but Clarke is not her puppet. She understands that the bond between their souls leaves Lexa more vulnerable, but she needs Lexa to trust her. She would never put any of them in danger, not purposefully so. Clarke has prepared for this moment. Every inhale and exhale has helped her gather the strength she needs, but when she turns her head to look at Lexa, it all crumbles to dust. 

Emerald eyes look straight ahead, hardened by whatever battle she fights in her mind. Her skin is pale, the exhaustion is tenfold what it was when she left. Clarke not only sees it, she feels it.

Lexa is miserable. 

“Lexa.” Clarke rests a hand on her thigh to provide comfort. 

“You will not like what I have to say. But I am tired, and I need you to understand and accept it for now.” Lexa's eyes stay on the horizon.

“What's going on?” Clarke frowns.

Lexa blinks, her eyes drop to Clarke's hand which she covers with her own. “I am leaving for a while,” she says and lifts her head. Her eyes are like steel when she meets Clarke’s gaze. “And I need to activate your security detail while I am gone.”

Clarke releases a huff of air through her nose. “Why?” 

Lexa clenches her jaw, and Clarke expects a ‘because I say so’, but what she gets is shoulders slumping and a frail “Please, Clarke. I cannot do my job if I worry about your safety, _our_ safety.”

Not many are able to cut through Clarke's armor of stubbornness, in fact, she never falls for the begging game. But this is not just anyone. This is Lexa, the strong woman, the fierce leader, the one who never asks for help because she insists she is supposed to handle everything by herself. This is Clarke's soulbound, the one whose despair swims in both their hearts and wraps around their spines in flawless synchronicity. Lexa's troubles are Clarke's troubles, and if Lexa needs this of her so bad that it almost wrecks her, then Clarke can do nothing but lower her defenses and succumb. 

“What’s this about, Lexa?” 

With her free hand, the one not entangled with Clarke, Lexa pulls the mug from a coat pocket. “My scouts found this by the gray mountain.”

Clarke stares at it and cannot for the life of her decrypt the meaning of it. Is she to be supervised by Lexa’s guards like a baby because of… “A mug?”

A shadow of a frown pulls at Lexa’s face. “They found it next to a dead man,” she says, just above a whisper even though no one is anywhere near listening in. “And new obelisks.”

“New…” Clarke may not have lived here for long, and there may still be countless places she has yet to explore, but the deduction that new obelisks means a new portal is reached faster than lightning nonetheless. “Shit,” she mutters. “How?”

Sadness swims in Lexa’s eyes. Guilt. “The reaper,” she says.

Clarke’s eyes widen. She understands the guilt, feels it bubble in her own mind. She knows exactly what Lexa is implying. They caused this. 

A flash of a memory brings Clarke back to a field of snow, a circle of azgeda guards surrounding her, a cunning, heartless woman demanding Heda's power, the beam of light that shook the ground below their feet, black blood trickling from… Clarke shivers. She shuts down her mind and forces the demon back into its cage. Now is not the time. 

“Wait,” Clarke says, feeling her heart pound against her chest. “The dead man?”

“Not from here.” Lexa hands her the mug. “Does Mount Weather mean anything to you?”

Clarke frowns at Lexa, then at the mug. “Mount Weather,” she mumbles, tasting the vowels and the mystery on her tongue. She sees the letters written on the mug and the outline of a mountain behind it. She shakes her head in a small, slow movement. “No.”

Lexa sighs, her eyes seeking out the tower upon the horizon. “I am scared,” she says.

“Why?” Clarke asks, even though she already feels the answer in her core.

“What if there are more? What if they are stronger than us?”

“What’s the plan?”

“I will lead an expedition to search the area and the obelisks. We need to know what we are up against. I cannot make a move before I do.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I expect no more than two sunrauns,” Lexa says, looking at Clarke. “I know you hate it, but I–”

“It’s okay, I understand. I’ll survive two sunrauns with a babysitter.” 

Clarke smiles, a subtle smirk, and Lexa leans in to kiss her, to taste the sweetness, and to stock up on these small, uncomplicated moments she never knew she craved.

“How long before you leave?” Clarke asks.

Lexa looks at the horizon again. “At Faya Sun,” she says.

“Okay, come on,” Clarke says, and jumps to her feet. She offers a hand to help Lexa up. “We have time for a bit of stargazing. You in?”

Lexa’s answer is a tender smile. She lets Clarke pull her onto her feet and to their bedroom where gleaming stars welcome them into their universe of comfort and endless opportunities. It feels like the calm before a storm Lexa does not know how to navigate. In Polis City they use the stars to find their way, and as Lexa lays down next to Clarke, she looks up into the ceiling thinking that perhaps these stars are all she needs right now. She rolls onto her side, closer to Clarke, and buries her nose in flower-scented hair. “Tell me about Polaris,” she murmurs. 

“The north star?”

“Sha, the one that shines the brightest.”

“Okay.” Clarke finds Lexa's hand in the dark, and begins a tale her father taught her many years ago. She still misses him terribly, but the longing is no longer bittersweet, no longer angry. The kru energy that runs through her veins is a reminder that he will always live on in her heart.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello you.
> 
> I'm very excited to share this chapter with you. You'll meet Aden again, and I really enjoy writing him, so I hope you will enjoy reading about him as well.
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for reading my work! It still amazes me that I have regular readers (it's so unreal). And this universe is not your typical fanfiction. It focuses on so much more than just the characters we know, and the couple(s) you all ship. I'm humbled that you want to continue this journey through my odd magic-like universe with me.
> 
> So thank you! <3
> 
> Now, the show must go on. Here's chapter 4. It's Clarke's POV of the time after Lexa left to go to the gray mountain.  
> Let me know what you think? :)
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# IV

 

 

Sleeping proves difficult when Lexa is away, not because of her absence, but because of the worry that simmers in Clarke's heart. The uncertainty that swam in Lexa’s eyes as she left for the expedition haunts Clarke every time she closes her eyes. Like the great winds ripping open the ocean and throwing waves at the shore, crashing against rocks taller than twenty men – and Clarke is but a small rowing boat caught in the storm. 

The bond between their souls is stretched so far that it leaves an ache along her spine – dull, but constant, and impossible to ignore. It makes her restless and irritable, and the walls of their home seem to tumble around her, while time passes slower than ever before.

She did try to sleep. She exhausted herself to the point where anything but sleep seemed impossible, but the stars in the ceiling of their bedroom made her feel small and insignificant with no one around to share them. It made time stand still in a way that felt suffocating, and she had to get outside, to feel the air expand in her lungs and the sun tickle her cheeks.

The sun hangs over the big ocean, and blue streaks infiltrate the bright sky above the trees. A silly smile curls Clarke’s lips as she remembers the time she asked Lexa if it was called Woda Sun – it seemed only logical when the sun over the big volcano is Faya Sun. Lexa had looked at her and blinked and said, “No”, with a matter-of-factness so austere it made Clarke laugh. When Clarke had finally calmed down, Lexa had explained to her that Faya Maun delivered the sun to the world as a gift so life could spring from its soil, and in return, to honor that gift, the world gave it a name.

“Hello, Clarke.” 

Clarke looks at the boy that just appeared in front of her. His sand-colored hair is long enough to curl around his ears, his shoulders are wider than when she first met him, and his voice is a pitch lower than most his age. He wears a long black coat, thin and delicate, but oozing with pride. And as he stands there, hands linked behind his back, head held high, a subtle smile on his lips, Clarke cannot help to think that not only does he look like a mini Heda, he looks like a young man breaking out of his boyish shell, too.

“Hello, Aden. What can I do for you?” She grins at the handsome boy that recently outgrew her by an inch. 

In Polis City she would have guessed him to be barely fifteen years old, a child, not even close to be considered an adult. But here, maturity is not measured in years. You prove your worth through the choices you make, what you think, what you do, how hard you work, how well you control your energy. Lexa has deemed him worthy to wear the black coat, and to be trained alongside her main guards, which is the finest seal of approval to receive.

Having felt on her own body the dangers Heda’s guard are trained to face, Clarke thinks that Aden is too young, but she knows her opinion matters next to nothing. These are cultural differences, and Clarke is still learning, still adjusting to her new life. 

“I am here to offer my assistance.”

“Oh? With what?” 

“Whatever you may need.” Aden flashes her a bright smile, excited to complete whatever task Lexa has assigned to him.

“What if I don't need anything?” Clarke says, tilting her head in a playful challenge. 

“Heda said you might say that.”

“Oh, did she? Did she also tell you what to do if I said that?”

A sheepish smile spreads on his lips, and he lifts a hand to rub his neck. Within a second he has pulled on a stoic mask. “Aden, I trust you to figure that out yourself,” he says, giving his best Heda impression, eliciting a loud laughter from Clarke.

Shyness colors Aden’s cheeks, pride sparkles in his eyes. It becomes him. It pleases Clarke to see him still embrace his youth. While he works hard to please Heda on a professional level, at least, he allows himself to be a child around Clarke.

“Wait, are you my security detail?” Clarke asks, the thought springing to life in her mind.

“Sha,” he nods, his spine straightening further. “And Lincoln. He is teaching me.”

It makes it easier to accept. And harder to be angry with Lexa. Lincoln has become a great friend to Clarke, and Aden is a beam of light when Clarke’s darkness invades her mind. Sometimes, not even Lexa can fix Clarke, and when that happens, Clarke goes to the foster home. It helps. It gives Clarke a kind of purpose that is not connected to the mark in her palm, or the truth of Wanheda. The innocence of young minds; something Clarke knows she will never get back.

“Let me get my shoes and we can go,” she says and springs to her bare feet. She rushes down the small stone steps and through the door, and when she returns, her hair is collected in a braid, and her hand is full of flameberries. 

The shoes on her feet are made of a black, leather-like fabric, with soles of a rubber-like material, and black string laces. They look much like shoes that can be bought in Polis City, not fashionable, but simple and practical. Everyone wears them, and Clarke wishes she did not have to. They are uncomfortable, squishing her feet, and not flexible enough, and Clarke yearns to slide her feet into a pair of sneakers and wiggle her toes around. 

“Alright, my knight in shining armor, let's go.” Clarke gives him half the flameberries and looks up into his thoughtful eyes.

“I never understood that,” he says. 

“What?” 

“The shining armor. It would reflect the sun, and you would never be able to hide. And Polis City seems infatuated by them. Do the knights operate only when it is dark?”

No matter how hard she tries, she cannot hold back the smile. In fact, she cannot stop it from growing into a wide grin. Aden is so much like Lexa sometimes that Clarke forgets they are not related. He knows a lot about Polis City – undoubtedly a result of Lexa’s mentoring – but he views it through his perception of the world he lives in, much like how Clarke views Heda’s world with Polis City eyes. It means they have both embarrassed themselves more times than should be accounted for when pondering out loud about the setting they are not used to.

“Well, you can be my knight in black armor, then, how's that?” Clarke says, deciding now is not the time to teach Aden about figures of speech.

“Better.” He grins and pops a flameberry into his mouth.

°*°

Aden walks alongside Clarke, eyes alert, but still able to keep a conversation going. They talk about training and the new exercises he has planned out for Clarke and Tris. Defense classes, fighting methods, energy control. Enthusiasm flows from his voice, and a hand is occasionally allowed to slide from a ready position at his side into movements that demonstrate what he means. His inexperience is what distinguishes him from Lexa who masters never showing any emotion when she is Heda – unless she means to, of course. But the fire within him that burns to prove himself to Lexa is so exuberant, so hungry, that Clarke has no doubt he will master his self-control when needed. 

A faint snapping noise makes them both stop and cock their ears. A twig, maybe. Clarke looks in its direction, somewhere behind her, but sees nothing, and a shiver runs down her spine. A flash of Ontari stepping out of the bushes burns in her mind, but before it settles, Aden shifts next her. He turns his back to her, shielding her with his body, his knees bent and hands lifted, ready to attack. Clarke stares wide-eyed at him, at the back of his neck, trying to find the voice to tell him he is looking in the wrong direction, but nothing comes out. 

Another snap. 

Clarke shifts so she is back to back with Aden, copying his stance. Her mind is racing, her mouth has gone dry. She inhales, holds it in, exhales. Inhales. Holds it in… Something is wrong. Or… not quite right.

She feels Aden shift, feels his arms push forward, feels the jerk of his torso against her back. The _whoosh_ that rings in Clarke’s ears tells her that Aden set off a stream of air – an attack. Her eyes roam the bushes in front of her, and panic rises in her blood as only stillness meets her. All this happens in a fragment of a second, a moment that feels like an eternity, only because Clarke has received combat training. She may not be stealthy, nor is she fast, but her mind knows enough to let her act and not panic. 

A familiar voice breaks the silence.

“You missed!” 

Lincoln. 

Clarke spins, taking a stand next to Aden as the bald man steps out of the bushes. Her mouth hangs open in disbelief, her eyes are burning with outrage. Her mind is screaming, _What the hell, Lincoln!?_ , but she cannot seem to voice it. 

“I never miss. You felt it grace your shoulder, did you not?” Aden says, a nonchalant kind of sass about his voice. 

Lincoln walks up to him. He narrows his eyes as he seems to consider his next words. “You get points for vigilance and keeping calm under pressure. You identified the real threat and you kept your asset safe.”

Aden’s face beams with pride, a glow that ebbs out as Lincoln says, “but you better practice on that humility of yours. Heda will not appreciate the arrogance.”

“Sha, Lincoln,” Aden says, meekness washing over him. “I apologize.”

Lincoln breaks a small smile. “Octavia would’ve praised you for that hit. Your precision is on point, you should be proud. Lesson over, come on, let’s move along.”

They begin walking, but a boiling Clarke stops them in their tracks. She stands before them, jaw tense, arms crossed over her chest, and she raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘you better explain yourself, young man’.

“Sorry, Clarke.” Lincoln dips his head an inch, and levels her with a look of remorse. “Heda’s orders.”

Clarke inhales, holds it in, exhales. She spins on her heel, leaving them behind as she continues her walk. Testing Aden in a secure, but realistic environment is clever. Clarke can admit that much. But she does absolutely not appreciate being pulled into it. 

She will yell at Lexa later. 

For now, she continues walking toward her destination, leaving her security detail to do whatever the hell they want. They keep their distance, talking in low voices so Clark cannot hear what they say. As if they know she needs her space. It both infuritates and pleases her. 

So she keeps walking.

As she reaches the foster home, it takes no more than a quick glance at Tris and Zoran to know that something is wrong. Zoran is sitting in the grass, Tris kneeling next thim. She has a balled up cloth pressed to the side of his head, removing it shortly to look underneath. Clarke picks up speed, rushes toward them, and as she gets closer, she sees blood dripping down the side of Zoran’s face, his shirt already stained.

“What happened?” Clark asks, kneeling next to Tris. She takes over, removing the cloth to find an open wound by his hairline.

“He tripped and hit his head on that rock,” Tris says, pointing at something in the grass. 

Clarke spares the rock a quick look, internally wincing as she sees the sharp edges. She looks at Zoran who cries in silence. His eyes are squeezed shut, and tears stream down his face and mingles with the blood on his cheek. His breathing is shaky, his lips are trembling. Clarke knows he is fighting hard to be brave, and her heart is clenching because he should not have to.

“Zoran, I’m gonna need to take a look at this, okay?” Clarke waits for his small nod to continue. “It may sting a little,” she says, and presses her fingers against his skin around the wound. She turns his head a bit to have a better look.

“I tried to stop the bleeding,” Tris says next to her. The worry is evident in her voice.

“You did well, Tris.” Clarke smiles at her. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Clarke does what she can. She holds Zoran’s head in her hands and takes away most of his pain with healing. She waits for his sad eyes to finally relax and open, and then she tells him everything will be okay and she will make sure to fix him up. The wound is deep, and her first instinct is to stitch him up. Kru healers use a different method, and Clarke is still inexperienced. The wound may be too deep, and she promised Nyko not to take any risks, not because he does not trust her, but because she is still in training – not yet a claimed healer. Those are the rules. 

“Zoran, do you think you're able to walk?” She asks.

“I think so,” he says in a frail voice.

Clarke helps him onto his feet, but as she lets go of him, he wobbles. She steadies him with a hand on his shoulder and turns to her companions that stand behind her, worry written on their faces. “Lincoln, would you be able to carry him to the healer quarters?” 

“Of course.” 

Lincoln picks up Zoran with ease, an arm under his knees, the other under his torso, gently cradling him. It seems effortless, still, Zoran looks like he might be sick. Clarke explains to him that he is safe and okay, and that she will fix him up as soon as they are at the healer quarters. She instructs him to keep the cloth pressed against the wound, which he accepts with a groggy nod. 

Tris insists on joining them, and Clarke knows she feels a great responsibility for Zoran’s well-being, so she allows it. Maybe Zoran will feel safer, too. 

As they begin to walk, Clarke catches Aden squeeze Tris’ shoulder and murmur, “It will be okay, Tris, do not worry. He is in good hands.” The gentleness of his voice and the softness in his eyes are much like the private Lexa no one but Clarke knows. It draws a smile on her lips, and it occurs to her that maybe Aden is indeed on his way to become a young man. 

°*°

Under the strict supervision of a healer named Deena, Clarke cleans Zoran’s wound and applies an anti-inflammatory oil extracted from herbs. Zoran’s eyes are big and wary as they watch Clarke's hands at work, but he is still and brave, and he complies when Clarke tells him to remember to breathe. 

“I promise, it won't hurt,” Clarke says as she places one hand against the nape of his neck, the other to cover the wound. 

Not knowing what to anticipate, Zoran squeezes his eyes shut. Clarke feels the fear tremble below his skin, feels it ripple under her palms. She counts to three in a hushed voice, doing what she can to prepare him, and then she begins. This is where Clarke excels, and Deena stands back watching with intent as the wound heals under Clarke's glowing hand. 

It leaves no scar, and Deena sends Clarke a small smile as her seal of approval. They both know the oil was only necessary because Clarke is still an apprentice, still learning. The truth is that no other healer, not even Nyko, is able to heal a wound this deep with kru energy alone, and if Clarke is ever to mentor someone else, she needs to know every corner of kru healing. A thought swims in Clarke’s mind. If Deena knew she was Wanheda, would she trust her with the patients, or would she fear that Clarke would hurt them instead? 

Clarke inhales, holds it in, and exhales. She forces the demon back into its cage.

Zoran yawns, his eyes a mix of relief and exhaustion. It brings Clarke back to reality, and she rests her hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze. 

“Come on, Zoran, let’s find you a bed.” She helps him to his feet and guides him down the hall to a small, dark room with a bed and a soft glow from a single light stone in the corner. He lies down and buries his face in the pillow, and Clarke drapes a blanket over his already half asleep body. “Anything you need?” She asks, but Zoran’s eyes sliding shut is his only answer.

A frown pulls at his face, his breathing is shallow. Clarke takes a seat on the edge of the bed. She runs her fingers through his hair a few times before letting it slide to his neck from where it is easier to read his body’s needs – a trick Nyko taught her. 

“Your hand,” she murmurs. She pulls the blanket off his torso and covers his hand – his right, where three fingers are stuck together as one lump – with her own. She takes away his pain, pulls the blanket back in place, and goes to leave the room.

“Mochof,” he mumbles, sleepy and barely audible.

“Anytime, Zoran. Rest up,” Clarke says, a soft smile on her lips as she closes the door behind her.

She finds her three companions waiting for her outside the cabin. Tris looks sick with worry, and Clarke assures her that Zoran will be fine after some sleep. Tris insists on being there when he wakes up, and because Clarke has nothing better to do, she decides to stay as well. Maybe the other healers could use her help while she is there. 

They take a seat on a bench in the small herb garden, letting time wash over them. Once in a while, one of them will leave to find food, or to shake their legs, but not once is Clarke left on her own.

Heda’s orders.

Out of nowhere, a sharp pain attacks Clarke’s core. She draws in a sharp breath and grits her teeth as to not scream. It settles like a deep rumble in her bones. Terror. Torment. Distress. 

“Clarke?” Lincoln touches his arm and winces as he, too, feels what Clarke feels. “Clarke, what’s going on?”

Clarke presses a hand against her sternum where it hurts the most. She looks at Lincoln, hoping her eyes convey what she cannot say. Lincoln nods, he understands.

“Aden, Tris. Can you get Clarke some water, please?” Lincoln says, his eyes never leaving Clarke’s. This is a conversation they need to have alone.

“Sha, Lincoln.” They leave, but not before looking at Clarke with worried eyes. They know they are not to question an order. 

As soon as they are out of earshot, Clarke takes a deep breath. In a low voice, one not meant for anyone but the only other person here who knows that her soul is bonded to Lexa’s, she says, “Something’s wrong.”

“Heda? She’s hurt?”

“No. It… No. I think… not physically.” Clarke’s eyes fleet between nothing in particular, searching for a truth she does not have insight into. It frustrates her. She wants to run to her, wants to be assured of Lexa’s well-being. She knows the nature of the expedition, and that probability of running into danger is, well, present. A potential high risk. 

“Do you want to stay here?” Lincoln asks. They both know that going after Lexa is not an option, but Lincoln is not only her security detail, he is her servant, too, and if there is anything he can do to make her feel more comfortable, he will. 

“I… I don’t know.” Clarke exhales a heavy breath and closes her eyes. She feels grief in her core, and wishes she knew why. She considers the possibility that her body is too confused to make sense of anything. “I need a distraction. I’ll go check on Zoran.”

Clarke gets up and walks towards the cabin where Zoran is. She knows Lincoln is following her, that he stays as far away as possible while still close enough to keep her safe. 

Her eyes flit to the two guards standing outside the adjoining cabin. From what Lexa told her, everyone knows about the wounded man inside, but not that he is dead; not officially. But Clarke knows everything, at least everything Lexa shared with her. The sight of the two guards makes Clarke nauseous. She picks up her pace, needing the comfort of the dark room in which the young boy is, hopefully, still asleep.

Clarke is so focused on her destination that she never sees the tall man walking towards her. She startles as he cuts her off from the side. 

“Watch it, skai girl,” he snarls.

“Uh, sorry,” Clarke says, not quite sure what just happened. She watches him walk away, brows furrowing. It takes her hazed mind a moment to register who it is. Teevus, the head gardener, the man who always scowls at her as if she were the lowest of scum. He never speaks to her, if he can avoid it, but Clarke decided a long time ago that whatever problem he has with her, she does not want to waste energy worrying about it. 

The nickname is new, though, and highly unappreciated. 

She opens her mouth to call for him, to stop him, to give him a piece of her mind, but Lincoln is already storming toward him, a hand grabbing at Teevus’ arm. 

“What was that, Teevus?” Lincoln says.

“Nothing.” Teevus gives him his best look of innocence. Clarke feels another kind of nausea build in her gut. 

“If common decency is not in your interest, let me remind you that Clarke is under the protection of Heda. That means you treat her like you would treat Heda. Do I make myself clear?” Lincoln levels him with a piercing glare, a coldness Clarke did not know the empathic man was capable of.

“Sha,” Teevus says, showing acceptance, but not remorse. He holds Lincoln’s stare until Lincoln lets go of his arm. He walks away as if whatever just happened never happened at all.

Lincoln scowls at the ground as he walks back to Clarke. “Are you okay?” He asks, back to the gentle soul Clarke knows.

But Clarke is not gentle and she is not okay. She is seething and unable to put a lid on the frustration that itches under her skin. “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Lincoln.” 

She means to leave him there, but Lincoln anticipates it and stops her with a hand on her wrist. He steps closer so only she hears what he has to say. “I know,” he says, “but it’s Heda’s battle, too.”

Clarke glares at him. She has lost herself to the worry and the anger and the distress and the million other emotions storming through her body. She is unreasonable, she knows she is, but cannot find a reason to care. Without a word, she slides out of his hold and storms off. 

She sneaks into Zoran’s room and takes a seat on the floor, cross-legged and back resting against the wall. She inhales, holds it in, and exhales. Through the encompassing darkness she can see the shape of the sleeping boy in the bed. His breaths are slow and steady, a lullaby that brings calm to Clarke's storm. 

She will hide there for as long as she can, or, until Lexa returns.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone.
> 
> It has been a long time since the last chapter was uploaded, and I want to apologize for the wait. If you follow me on tumblr you already know that I've had a couple of rough weeks that took my time/energy from writing... hopefully all that will be over very soon SO I can get back to my old writing routines :) 
> 
> But to quickly summarize last chapter: We followed Clarke after Lexa had gone to the gray mountain. Aden and Lincoln was "keeping her company" as she went to visit the foster home where she found a hurt Zoran whom she brought to the healer quarters. Things happened, and we learned a bit about Clarke's current struggles. 
> 
> Some of you already caught on to the fact that something happened to Lexa (Clarke sensed it). And if it wasn't obvious; chapter five (this one) is Lexa's POV to the same time frame (sort of). Are you ready to visit the gray mountain?
> 
> Enjoy! (And let me know what you think)  
> ~anonbeme
> 
> ps. a special thank you to my two secret little helpers (beta readers) that carried me through this chapter. For some reason this one was particularly difficult to write. 
> 
> pps. a thousand special thank yous to all of you reading this, one chapter at a time as I upload them. Your comments as we go along makes it a little bit easier to get through the difficult times <3 <3 <3

# V

 

 

“Rest up,” Lexa says, slowing to a halt. “It has been a long journey, and I need everyone to be ready for the climb.” 

The expedition crew spreads from the foot trodden path and settles onto available tree trunks and rocks, and some even on the ground. They are surrounded by trees placed too far from each other to be a forest, and between them, the sharp outline of the grey mountain is visible.

Needing a moment to herself, Lexa walks another fifty feet up the path. She stops, hands linked behind her back, her face turned toward Biga Maun – the highest peak in the kru world, except for Faya Maun. The cliff wall from which the obelisks have emerged is at the foot of the mountain, and they need only to climb the base to reach it. It is a short but steep path and it will grind down even the strongest warrior should they not be prepared. 

Lexa observes the landscape, letting her eyes roam the wide stretch of giant rocks. Where the trees thin out, pebbles, stones, and boulders cover the ground as if carelessly spread out by the wind – they will grow in size on the way to the gray mountain. The area is barren and populated only by animals that are mostly harmless and will scamper off when Lexa’s crew approaches. What lies before Lexa is a long stretch of nothing, and while it may seem like there are no living creatures in the area, it is too soon to tell if strange men, armed and dangerous, have entered through the portal.

The unknown is the most critical factor.

Lexa has ordered her guards to catch any potential intruders alive – and to interrogate them if needed. They are as prepared as can be; still Lexa cannot seem to shake the feeling that nothing will ever prepare them for what is to come. If releasing The Reaper created a portal here, far from Ice Nation’s snow-covered fields, who is to say that there are not more somewhere else?

Wilted leaves crunch under approaching feet, and a slice of bread with cheese is held out to her. “Eat, Heda.”

“Thank you, Indra.” Lexa takes the offering and bites into it. Wrapped up in thoughtful silence, she chews while her mind goes to work. 

“There is something you are not telling me, Heda.”

Lexa pauses mid-chew. The food brought to her with generosity tastes suddenly bitter on her tongue, and with a tang of guilt. Lexa has asked herself many times why she chose to keep the release of The Reaper a secret. The safety of her people has been a repeating mantra, but she cannot help but feel that it is more of an excuse than anything else. 

It was done with and over. 

No reason to cause panic. 

But now, when Lexa stands before the gray mountain, and whatever dark secrets it may encompass, she feels the truth tremble under her skin. 

Fear. 

The more people who know the truth, the greater the chance of it slipping out. All Lexa saw at the time was the possibility that someone like Teevus would find out. It would be enough to cause havoc amongst her people. They would only see a reckless behavior, and not the sacrifice Lexa had to make to keep them safe. She could be forced to abdicate, and if that were to happen, it would have all been for nothing. 

At some point she realized she could trust Indra; that keeping it from her was foolish. But a long time had passed, and the longer she waited, the harder it became to tell the truth. 

Eyes glued to the mountain, Lexa chews and swallows. The bread is a dry lump that forces itself down her throat. 

Maybe she could begin now. Maybe this is her last chance of saving the trust between them, a trust Indra does not yet know Lexa has broken. Indra is intelligent, and it is merely a matter of time before she pieces it all together. 

Deciding she has nothing to lose, she looks at the tall woman with clever eyes next to her. “I am a coward, Indra.”

“You are many things, Heda, but a coward is not one of them.”

“When I tell you what I have kept from you, you may change your mind.” Lexa fights against the shame, but it wins, and her eyes fall to the dirt beneath her feet. “I did not tell you everything that happened when Nia took Clarke. I…” Lexa sighs, frustrated by how difficult it is to speak. 

_We summoned The Reaper._

Four words is all it takes, but they are stubborn and claw at her throat. She does not see the way Indra nods, as if she knows the nature of the unspeakable. As if she accepts being kept in the dark.

“All I need to know, Heda, are we walking my warriors right into a death trap?”

“No!” Lexa almost yells, her wide eyes finding their way back to Indra’s. “I would never do such a thing.

“Very well.” Indra nods. “I trust you to tell me what is necessary for me to know.”

“There is one thing.”

Indra tilts her head, a silent request for Lexa to continue.

Lexa looks around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. Her eyes are dark and pleading, and her voice is barely a whisper. “The new portal… It is my fault. I did not know–”

“The Reaper?”

“–that it… What?” 

“I expected Nia to drive a hard bargain, and since you are alive, you must have given her something much more valuable than your abdication. As much as I wish it was something else, it is the only thing I can think of.”

It dawns on Lexa that she underestimated Indra, her master strategist, the woman who has studied Nia Kom Azgeda for two generations. “I apologize, Indra. I should have told you.”

Indra shakes her head, calm and slow. “No. You are Heda and do not owe me anything. Even though I hoped you would have told me sooner, you did not lie to me. I know you better than you think, young one,” Indra says, sending Lexa a small smile. “You blame yourself. But I know that if you could go back in time, you would do it again. Because it was the only choice you had to keep Nia from dealing great damage to our people.”

The lump in Lexa’s throat swells, and something squeezes around her lungs. Indra is right, and Lexa hates it. It would have been easier if Indra had yelled, but now all Lexa is left with is her own anger pointed inward, and the realization that she does not appreciate her second-in-command enough. From now on she will make sure that Indra receives the respect she deserves.

“I would have done the same thing,” Indra says and leaves Lexa alone with her thoughts.

 

°*°

 

 

The climb up the mountain is an ungrateful beast. The path is rough and rocky, and it stretches out before them like a tilted wall that taunts them with a promise of tipping them over to roll back down again. It bites into their feet and leaves a prickling numbness in every muscle in their body. As they reach the platform, Lexa orders everyone to catch their breath and to take one of Nyko’s refreshing mixtures. 

The final stretch is flat, and while it may not exhaust their bodies, it will challenge their minds. To get to the cliff wall, they must cross a large, open field which will leave them vulnerable to anyone lurking in the shadows of the trees. 

Lexa considered the best approach. Would it be wiser to sneak along the edge of the field, weaving between trees? No. If intruders hide in the shadows, Lexa’s crew will be caught as they reach the cliff wall no matter what. They are stronger together, and so Indra’s guards form a circle of protection around Heda and those who are not warriors – Nyko and his helpers, and the scouts. They step into the field, all eyes scanning their surroundings for any dangers. 

None.

Feet shuffle through thin grass like whispers. 

Blood beats a steady rhythm in their ears. It flows like calm waters through their veins.

They cross the open space, slowly and meticulously. On command, the guards form a half circle of protection to ensure that no one can sneak up on them from behind, and Lexa steps forward to face the demon in front of her. The cliff wall is a massive, vertical monster of hard rock. It towers over them, taller than thirty men. Had Lexa not timed their arrival like she did, they would have been buried in a massive shadow as the sun hung on the other side of the peak.

Two obelisks seem carved halfway into the wall, or perhaps grown from it. The material is dark, the kind of black that is both matte and shiny at the same time. The obelisks are engraved with a long groove that runs from base to top and pulsates with a glowing blue light much like a beating heat. Lexa has never seen this material before. It worries her. She lifts her wrist to study the mark of Praimfaya. Two loops; two worlds connected through a portal. If these two obelisks are a new portal, then why is a third loop not added to her wrist? She files this away to discuss with Titus later.

“Is anything different than the first time you were here?” Lexa asks out loud, her eyes not leaving the obelisks.

“No, Heda. It is the same,” one scout says.

“Where did you find the body?”

“On the ground, Heda. Right in front of the cliff.”

“In the middle?” 

“Yes, but closer to the left obelisk.”

“And the mug?” 

“Where you are standing, Heda.”

They feel like silly questions, but Lexa has to ask them. As the scouts recount the details of finding the dead stranger, Lexa recreates the scene inside her mind. Her eyes zoom in on the spot where the body laid, sprawled carelessly as if collapsed. What happened? Did he travel through the portal and die on the spot? Was the air toxic to him? Or… the sunlight, perhaps? Could it cause a heart attack? 

Lexa studies the ground. She notes of the distance between the location of the body and the mug they found, too far from each other for the stranger to just having dropped it. “Was the mug empty?” She feels silly asking, but perhaps one of these odd details is the key to unlock the mystery.

“Sha. Clean, Heda.”

A man travels through a portal with an empty mug in his hands. He is struck by a heart attack, collapses, and drops the mug which lands several feet away. Why would he bring a clean mug? Why would be bring a mug, _any_ mug? Why did he use the portal? Lexa has no answers to these questions that keep piling up. She needs a different approach.

“Titus?” 

The Translator steps forward to join Heda by her side, his short and lanky posture an odd match to her powerful sharpness. 

“Tell me what you see.”

“What I see?”

“Yes. Describe everything you see. Maybe you see something I do not.”

With a small nod he accepts the challenge. He closes his eyes and lifts his hands, palm up. Lexa watches him carefully, in awe of the potential that flows in his veins. Worry washes over her as he furrows his brow, something he only ever does when he is confused or frustrated. 

“There is a strange energy here, Heda, one I do not recognize.” He shakes his head slowly, the crease between his brows growing deeper. “It is weak. No. Not weak. Thin.”

A thin energy? It makes no sense to Lexa, and she has to refrain herself from snapping at him. His approach is slow and meticulous, too slow for her at the moment. He is tasting every thought and every word like it was his last meal, and every moment that passes is another moment where Lexa does not know how to keep her people safe. 

Lexa is desperate.

_Titus._ His name almost slips from her tongue, but she suddenly finds herself transfixed by the way he steps forward, eyes glued to an obelisk. 

“It gets stronger the closer I get,” he says.

Lexa watches him, her eyes glued to the side of his head as he approaches the obelisk with an outstretched hand. The way he pulls in air through his nose, sharp and violent, makes Lexa frown. He hesitates. He falters and his hand hangs in the air without purpose just long enough to make Lexa realize that whatever Titus is about to do is a bad idea. Dangerous. Reckless. Titus is driven by a powerful urge to seek the truth no, matter the obstacles in his path.

Lexa opens her mouth to warn Titus.

Titus presses his hand against the obelisk. 

Lexa is too late. 

As Lexa yells his name, the shaking begins. Bright blue sparks envelop his violently jerking body until he collapses to the ground. 

“Titus!” Lexa falls to her knees next to him. Her hands hover above his body, hesitant like Titus just a moment ago. Before she can touch him, hands grab around her upper arms and pull her away. She watches as Nyko takes her spot by Titus. 

“Do not touch the obelisk!” Lexa’s eyes are wide as she fights against the restraining hold on her arms. 

“Stay back, Heda.” Anya blocks her path, hands pressed against Lexa’s chest. 

“Anya!” Anger builds in Lexa. This is her fault and she needs to fix it. She needs to… Titus is hurt because of her, and she needs to…

Titus is hurt. 

The obelisk! 

Why did she not anticipate this? She should have. It is not only her duty, but her purpose to protect her people! 

Titus is lying still on the ground, a sight eerily similar to how she imagined the stranger was found. A jolt of fear runs through Lexa’s body.

“Nyko is best at what he does,” Anya says. “He’ll be fine.”

As much as Lexa wants to believe Anya, she knows better. There is something in Anya's eyes, something morose and dark, that tells her, that Anya knows better, too. 

The guards are standing shoulder to shoulder, a solid wall between Lexa and the obelisks. Every time she shifts to get a better look at what happens on the other side, Anya mirrors her. The urge to snap at her most trusted guard rumbles in her chest. She clenches her jaw and balls up her fists in an attempt to keep the anger inside.

It seems forever before Nyko passes through the human barrier. Four men carrying Titus follow behind him. The moment Titus’ motionless body touches the ground, Lexa is there, kneeling by his head. His eyes are shut, his body slack, as if taking a peaceful nap under the sun is the most obvious thing to do while the world rages on around him. Lexa hears her own shuddering breath. She lays a hand on his chest; his body is already cold, his lungs no longer expanding. 

“You foolish man!” A strangled cry ripped raw and hoarse. Lexa’s nostrils flare to beat of her angry, broken heart. 

“My apologies, Heda,” Nyko says. “His heart gave up. We could not…” He falters as Lexa's head dips forward, her forehead resting on Titus’ chest. 

There is nothing but silence. 

Guards and scouts and healers are scattered across the field surrounding their Heda as she mourns the loss of her Translator. As Lexa lifts her head, everyone else dips theirs. 

Lexa knows the kru world needs a leader who puts her people before anything else, so she swallows her pain, takes a deep breath, and touches two fingers to Titus’ forehead. 

“Yu gonplei ste odon,” she says, her voice calm and collected. As everyone repeats her words, sending his soul onward with wishes of a safe passage, a cold sorrow latches onto her heart. She feels it shiver down her spine, and it forces her back onto her feet. 

“Indra,” she says, eyes traveling up the gray beast. She would tear it down with her bare hands, one chunk of rock at a time, if she knew it would eliminate the threat it exposes. “Until we know how to deactivate the portal, secure the area. Do not let anyone pass the perimeter.”

“Sha, Heda.”

Lexa’s eyes drop to the man who lies at her feet. Titus was not just her Translator, he was a mentor, a role model who taught Lexa what it meant to carry the honor of duty in her heart. He was the closest thing she had to a father, and she cherished the many hours they spent as he taught her all he knew about the legends and kru history. 

Somewhere between the sorrow, the frustration, and the self-hatred, it strikes her that her next Translator sits in a muggy, dark dungeon because serving Heda is a much worse destiny than rotting away in a _shithole that smells worse than a bucket-full of a day's worth of, well, shit_. 

His words.

Lexa quells the thought before it adds to the anger she already carries. Only one thing matters right now. She needs to bring Titus back to the tower. To honor his greatness.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you.
> 
> It's been a while, and I'm a little sad about it. Let's get the less fun stuff out of the way first. Remember when I said the world has been unkind to me? Well, it turns out it continued and even got worse. No need to worry, I'm taking care of myself <3 But it means that writing is slow, thus uploading new chapters is slow too. Writing is my escape, so it sucks a little that I have to cut down on it for a while. Your comments (here, tumblr, twitter) warm my heart and makes it a little easier to escape reality when I need it, so thank you <3
> 
> Alright, enough depressing stuff. Let's get to it.  
> Quick summary of last chapter: Lexa led her expedition crew to the gray mountain to examine the new obelisks. It did not end well for Titus. While you wait for Lexa's reaction to the loss of her Translator, there's a small interception of POV... 
> 
> Enjoy! <3 (and let me know what you think)  
> ~anonbeme

# VI

 

 

Level four has been shut down. Restricted access only. Whitman never returned, and by the time they solved the technical issues with the camera feed, there was no sign of Whitman anywhere. 

Lowe’s crew of technicians have turned the hallway with the cranny into a full functioning office equipped with all necessary tools and devices. And a coffee maker. There are two bunk beds that earn their purpose when crew members refuse to leave. Everyone wants to be there when and if there is a breakthrough. 

Cage stands, hands in pockets, trying his best not to look bored as he watches the monitor with the camera feed. It was exciting at first, another view of a land waiting to be explored, and while everyone else worried about Whitman and what might have happened to him, Cage dreamed of feeling the sun kiss his skin.

Days have passed – four, five, maybe. All they have learned so far is that it never gets dark, and the sun appears to circle the place on a horizontal level. Lowe speaks with the excitement of an eight-year-old about how groundbreaking their findings are, but Cage only cares about whether or not it is habitable. This is the only reason he stops by to stare at the monitor every few hours or so.

“Cage.” Lowe takes a stand next to him, greets him with a nod. 

“Anything new?”

Lowe seems to consider. “Mmhno,” he says. It sounds more like regret than anything else.

“My father wants to shut it down.” Cage keeps his eyes on the monitor. The picture-perfect of a grassy field framed by tall, thriving trees seems to hold him under a spell. 

“Mmhyeah,” Lowe says, an almost disappointed groan. “I heard. And it's easily done, a click on a button. But it doesn't fix the cranny problem.”

Right. The cranny. For the past couple of days, the cranny has been covered by the activated energy field. Cage has been staring at the shimmering veil for so long it intrudes his dreams. The veil, not the cranny. The door, not the deathtrap. 

“Lowe,” Cage says, furrowing his brows, but still looking at the monitor. “I've been thinking. If you touch the cranny, you're done. Game over. Wouldn't it be safer to keep the veil active?”

A smile forms on Lowe's lips. “I suggested it to your dear father, and he said…” Lowe pauses, thrown off by the way Cage leans forward to have a better look at the monitor. 

“There's something…” Cage narrows his eyes, sliding a hand out of his pocket to point at the monitor. “What the hell is that? Is it moving?”

Lowe leans in, and yes, at the far end of the field, something is, in fact, moving. It becomes clear that the object grows in size, and within seconds, both Cage and Lowe have identified what it is. 

“Get my father!” Cage yells. When nothing but silence meets him, he straightens up and skewers the first unlucky soul – one of Lowe's helpers – with a dark, threatening look. “Now!”

David – the unlucky soul – startles and drops the clipboard in his hands, but dares not pick it up. Wide-eyed, he rushes down the hall, and before he turns the corner, Cage yells after him to get Emerson too. 

Next to him, Lowe releases a low whistle. “Wallace Senior.”

“He will have my head on a platter if I keep this from him,” Cage says, not able to keep the contempt out of his voice. His eyes are already fixated on the monitor again. “Can we record it?” 

“We already are,” a crew member calls from the side. 

“Good.”

Cage and Lowe are glued to the monitor, and curious people with conveniently empty hands and nothing to do gather behind them. They all watch with a mixture of fear and excitement as _that thing that moves_ reveals itself to be a group of twenty or so men and women, most of them clad in thin, black coats.

“What are they doing?” Lowe wonders out loud. 

No one knows. 

In silence, they keep watching as the group slowly approaches the camera. They form a circle that surrounds a small group of people, and Cage’s first thought is that they have a full three-sixty view of their surroundings. They move as if they are fully alert and expecting danger to appear from any angle. 

“What's going on?” The voice of Dante Wallace, father to Cage, President of Mount Weather, appears.

“Have a look,” Cage says, eyes never leaving the action on the monitor. “There are people.”

“People?” Dante presses his way in between Cage and Lowe to look at the monitor. He hums thoughtfully. “What are they doing?”

Cage shrugs. Below the coldness, he wears a smug smile because there is no way his father will shut down the energy field now. 

“They have no weapons.” Emerson takes a stand on the other side of Cage who looks at him as if trying to decipher what it means. Emerson, Head of Security, continues his analysis. “They are guarding whoever is inside the circle.”

“Why would they do that?” Dante asks.

“Probably the safest route across the field. Maybe they know you are watching them. My guess, they expect someone to attack.” 

Emerson looks from the monitor to the tripod that is placed so the attached camera is still on this side, the lens just about disappearing behind the shimmering veil. It took more attempts than Lowe’s pride likes to admit to figure out that battery-driven devices seem to not work on the other side of the veil. It proved to be for the better. They learned, that if they kept the battery part on this side, the camera still worked, and with the assistance of a mirror attached to a broomstick, they set it up so it could not be seen from the other side. “Is it live?” He asks. 

“Yes,” Lowe says.

“Let's see how it plays out.” Emerson crosses his arms over his chest, idly drumming his thumb against his elbow. He joins the Wallace men as they study the monitor with calculating eyes. 

They watch as the group comes closer, one step at a time, still alert, all attention on their surroundings. Maybe twenty feet away from the cliff wall – at the boundaries of the energy field – they stop. The circle is now a row, a human wall.

“Yes, see. There.” Emerson taps a finger on the monitor. As the group parted, a woman in a black coat steps forward. The red fabric that hangs from one shoulder makes her stand out. “I bet she's their leader. I bet they're protecting her.”

“With their bare hands,” Cage says, a touch of condescension in his voice. 

“Don't underestimate them. If they have Whitman, there's no way to tell what they know about us,” Emerson says. “They came here prepared, so–Wait, we don't have sound?”

The woman is talking to the men behind her. She asks questions, they answer. That much is obvious. 

“Uh, no. We haven't cracked that one yet,” Lowe says. 

“If you clear it, Sir, I can find an officer who can read lips,” Emerson says, looking at the President.

“I’ll consider it, Emerson, thank you. But we don’t even know if they speak English.”

“My guy could confirm th–” Emerson furrows his brow as the woman calls forward a thin, bald man dressed in a cloak, its color reminding him of hemp bags. 

Everyone holds their breath as the man steps forward, toward the cliff wall. While the energy field is not visible from the other side, if they have Whitman, they could know about it. Emerson steps aside, his hand already sliding his gun from its holster. Eyes slide from the monitor to the wall at which he points the gun. If the man comes through, he is ready. They have Whitman hostage? They will take a hostage of their own.

“Emerson.” The president’s voice is thick with worry.

“Don’t shut it down, Sir. Trust me.”

“We don’t–”

“Oh God!” A strangled cry from Lowe. He flinches, taking a step back. 

Emerson just about catches sight of the man on the monitor collapsing to the ground. “What happened?”

“He touched something, the pillar, maybe. Then he started shaking and collapsed.” Cage says, dry and apathetic.

“Shut it down.” The president orders.

“Hang on.” Cage’s eyes are still glued to the monitor. “They’re retreating.”

The woman, the presumed leader, is pulled back behind the line of guards that step forward to shield her from the danger. Emerson slides his gun back into its holster and steps closer. He scratches his chin as he watches three men kneel next to the wounded man. Their hands start to glow as they are pressed against his chest and head. 

“What are they doing?” Lowe asks, chancing a peek over Cage’s shoulder.

“They’re trying to heal him?” Cage wonders out loud. “Maybe their hands are their weapons.”

“Christ,” Emerson mutters. “Who the hell are they? What is this place?”

“Shut it down,” the President repeats, this time with finality.

Cage looks at his father with an impenetrable hardness in his eyes. “Father–”

“For now,” the President cuts him off. “Shut it down for now.” He looks at Emerson. “I’ll clear that lip reader of yours. Bring him in, analyze the recorded footage. I want a report on the new discoveries and new threats. I want a defense strategy. I want a detailed report on how to approach that… that place should we decide to explore it. I want all our options explored. Be thorough.”

“Yes, Sir.” Emerson nods. 

Cage stares at his father. They are both tall, both ambitious, but they do not share much apart from their DNA. 

Dante Wallace is a calm man, even when angered. He is firm, and his commands are never defied. If you ask Cage, his father’s methods are outdated. The proof is right there in the form of a deadly crack in the wall – something that appeared out of nowhere _inside_ a bunker that was built to keep any threat out. 

All this sitting around expecting things to stay the same has proven insufficient.

Cage stays silent. He watches his father cast a last glance at the monitor. Those old, blue eyes are shaded with a fear only Cage knows how to read, and it dawns on him that he cannot rely on his father to do what is necessary.

With a distracted nod, Dante Wallace takes off down the hallway. Even his walk is calm. 

Cage follows him with his eyes as he turns the corner. “I’ll volunteer,” he says. 

“To shut it down?” Emerson says, a playful glint in his eyes. 

Cage quirks a smile. Emerson is on his side, and his father is a fool for not realizing it. “Next time we activate the field, I'll go through.”

“You think there'll be a next time?” 

“Of course. You'll make sure of that, Emerson. With that detailed report of yours.”

“I'll make it happen on one condition.”

“There's a condition now? I thought you were given an order.”

Emerson scoffs. “Next time the field is activated, I'll go through before you to make sure it's safe. You're reckless, Cage, you need me there.”

“Make it happen and I'll ignore what you just called me,” Cage says, his eyes shining with a threat that makes Emerson smirk. 

“Yes, sir!” Emerson salutes him before turning to Lowe. “You heard the President. Shut it down, and let's get to work on that report.”

“Yes, sir.” Lowe says, the paleness of his skin the only indication that they just witnessed a man dying on the other side of the shimmering veil.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, you!  
> Since ao3 doesn't allow for me to send you a status update, I hope some of you at least found your way to my Tumblr blog so you know I'm still here, still writing, still loving this universe of mine :)
> 
> I'm back from the summer (sooo not ready for the rain and the storms and all that, not yet). And I'm ready to share the next chapter. 
> 
> It's been a while, so I'll help refresh your memory on what happened these past chapters:  
> Lexa went on an expedition to the gray mountain to examine the new obelisks. Titus decided to examine them with his hands and suffered a fatal blow :( Meanwhile, Clarke visited the foster home where she found an injured Zoran whom she took to the healer quarters. She very much sensed something terrible happening to Lexa, but doesn't know what exactly.  
> Last chapter was Mount Weather POV. The details are irrelevant to this chapter, will be for a while. Just know that Wallace Jr. is adament about walking under the sun and breathe fresh air into his lungs.
> 
> So, I think it's about time to move this thing along. I apologize for the long wait. The break was good for me, and essentially that's good for the progress of this story as well. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this verse, and for all the kudos and comments. I'm quite fond of all of you <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# VII

 

 

The horn sounds. A long, droning bellow that hangs in the air like heavy raindrops and haunts the soul long after it stops. It crawls on skin and hair rises in its wake. 

It makes Clarke stop in her tracks. She looks at Lincoln, and the worry she finds on his face is more than enough to have her turn around and rush toward the tower, Lincoln and Aden hot on her heels.

She knows Lexa is there, has felt for a while now that she was on her way back from the expedition. The relief of being close lingers in her bones, but there is a darkness in her mind that is not her own, and it distracts her from focusing on her breathing. She zigzags her way through trees to cut the shortest route, and only when she reaches the main road does she slow down. Her throat is dry, her lungs are empty. A shooting pain has latched onto her sides, and she doubles over, hands on her knees until the white dots disappear from her vision. 

“Alright?” Lincoln stops next to her, seemingly unfazed by the run.

“Will be,” she says, pressing a hand against her chest. Her lungs tingle, and it travels through her veins until the stitch in her side dissolves and her breathing calms down. The darkness is still there, and judging by the way Lincoln keeps his eyes on her, he knows it, too. She gives him a doleful shrug and begins walking, and it takes all but a moment before her two companions have taken their spot flanking her. 

The main road lies at her feet, bricks shimmering under the sun, and Clarke looks up at the tower that awaits them with promises of unpleasant news. 

“Lincoln, what does the horn mean?” 

“We call it Sunraun of Honor. It means…” Lincoln frowns as he searches for the right words. 

“It is a ceremony to honor great men and women who falls in battle,” Aden says, his voice calm and clear as he finishes what Lincoln cannot.

Lincoln’s eyes drop to the floor, Clarke's heart following right after. 

“Was Octavia on the expedition?” Clarke asks.

Lincoln shakes his head. For a while he says nothing, and Clarke only observes him as he fights to push the emotions back inside. “Indra,” he says and clears his throat.

“You think…” Clarke frowns. Maybe the thought is better left unsaid. 

The only reason Clarke is still able to walk with a clear mind is the fact that she knows Lexa is still alive – their bonded souls assure her of it. Inside her, mingled with that clarity, is a sadness so all-consuming that whoever fell in battle must be someone very important to Lexa. She knows what Indra means to Lincoln. She is his mentor like Lexa is for Aden, and in this culture, a mentor trainee connection is often much stronger than a parent child relation. Her gut feeling tells her that whoever died is closer to Lexa than Indra is. Very few fall under that category, and Clarke's mind refuses to go there. Instead she looks at the tower, her eyes growing darker the closer she gets. 

They will learn the truth soon enough.

As the plaza comes into sight, a wave of somberness washes over them. A crowd has gathered by the marble stairs, heads dipped and voices thinner than a whisper. 

Lincoln and Aden makes their way through the crowd keeping Clarke sandwiched between them as they approach the stairs. When they reach the open space, Clarke's eyes fall upon a slim makeshift bed of red timber. The bed is softened by blankets, and on it lies a still body.

A thin, bald man.

“Titus,” Clarke breathes, putting a name to the darkness she feels on behalf of Lexa.

Her eyes rake over the man. His arms are resting along his body, his eyes are closed. He looks asleep; certainly not a man lost to battle. As her mind searches for answers, her eyes seek out Lexa. She is nowhere in sight, no flash of red amongst the crowd. Clarke looks skyward to the balcony on the ninth floor of the tower. 

“She'll be here,” Lincoln says, a hand on Clarke's arm.

She looks at him, a silent plea to let her go. Lexa needs her, and every second spent apart is another second of anguish. Every fiber in her body yearns to soothe it, and she cannot do that from here.

“First we pay our respects.” Lincoln motions for Clarke to follow him, the gravity in his voice calling her back to the scene before her.

They step into the empty space. Lincoln walks up to the makeshift bed and looks down on Titus’ still body. He presses two fingers against Titus’ forehead, closes his eyes, and murmurs, “Yu gonplei ste odon.”

_Your fight is over._

Aden does the same. 

This is a funeral, Clarke realizes. A ceremony she has yet to get acquainted with. She never knew Titus as anyone other than Lexa's Translator, a man that kept to himself and worked diligently to fulfill his purpose. But to Lexa's people, relations between individuals always come second to tradition. Their ceremonies are the pillar of their culture, and Clarke knows she must put great effort into showing critical minds such as Teevus’, that she, too, belongs here. 

Many eyes are upon her as she steps forward. She wants to do this right. She has witnessed Nyko perform this ritual when they lost a patient, and she knows the philosophy behind the words. They are spoken to pay homage to the life of a soul that leaves its vessel, but to Clarke it also gives the living an opportunity to say goodbye. She may not have known Titus very well, but he was important to this world, and so Clarke wants to honor him with all she has to offer.

While uncertainty may run in her veins, there is no hesitation as she lifts a hand to press two fingers against his forehead. “Yu gonplei ste odon,” she murmurs, but the words barely escape her lips before they are swallowed by a desperate gasp. 

Her eyes are forced shut. 

A strange vision invades her mind. All darkness. Two blue glowing dots emerge, then fade back into the depths of a void Clarke cannot see but knows is there. The ghost of a growl creeps up her spine and leaves an icy trail of goosebumps. 

A hand presses against her back. She knows it is Lincoln, and not just because his voice is at her ear telling her to follow him, but because the anxiety in her chest clears in a matter of seconds. 

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers. They have an agreement, that Lincoln must not use his ability to manipulate her stress levels unless she asks him to, but with a plaza full of witnesses, she understands his action. If she cannot control whatever touching Titus set off, it would raise questions. Clarke worries that the only answer that could suffice would be to claim the purpose of Wanheda, officially, for the public to know. But if that day ever comes, Clarke wants it to be on her terms, and not because she – or Lexa, for that matter – were thrown to the lions.

Clarke means to step away from the crowd, away from the tower to compose herself, but something shifts around her. Heads are raised and eyes are lifted toward the marble stairs. Clarke is incapable of doing anything but the same. 

A figure steps from the tower. Tall and slender and wrapped in a long, black robe. The face is hidden under a large hood, but everyone knows who it is: Heda. The way her presence calls for attention leaves no doubt.

Behind her, another four figures follow, each dressed in white robes with a different color adorning the edges of the fabric. A fiery orange, a deep blue, an earthy brown, and a shimmery grey. Clarke knows them as the Four High Priests, each representing an element, the energy of which they have devoted their life to master. When the legends tell their stories, they are nameless, faceless, and genderless. They are the closest thing this culture comes to having a deity – four deities, in this case – but their function is not to be worshipped, it is to worship the elements, and to teach Heda’s people to do so, too. 

They follow Heda down the stairs, graceful, and seemingly floating, adding an ethereal beauty to the tragic scene. The area around Titus has been cleared, and Heda takes a stand by his head. She presses two fingers to his forehead, and with an almighty voice, she speaks the words of honor. 

“Titus Kom Sangedakru, yu gonplei ste odon.”

The entire plaza becomes one united murmuring voice that echoes Heda’s words. It rings in Clarke’s ears like the words to a song she will never forget. At this point, she cannot tell her own sorrow from Lexa’s. She looks at the face hidden beneath the black hood, convincing herself that emerald eyes are looking back at her. So close, yet so far. Heda is strong, and Clarke wonders if she is the only person in the plaza who sees Lexa’s vulnerability. 

It wrecks Clarke.

The Four High Priests position themselves around Titus. The Master of Fire takes Heda’s spot by Titus’ head, the Master of Water stands by his feet. The Master of Soil and the Master of Wind move to each of his sides. They all stand with their backs turned toward the corner of the world from which their elements exist in their clearest form. 

Heda takes position at the top of the stairs, Clarke’s eyes following her every move. “Let the Sunraun of Honor begin,” she speaks, and to Clarke, it is both impressive and tragic, that Lexa is able to sound so collected when a storm of inexplicable magnitude rages on inside her. And because it kills Clarke to witness, she does the one thing she knows she can do. She activates her energy, letting it flow over her hands in gentle tremors. She knows Lexa can feel it. She _needs_ Lexa to feel it. When Lexa echoes the gesture, Clarke allows a small smile on her lips. It tastes of sadness. 

Before her, the Four High Priests have already begun their ritual. Titus’ body is covered in a dark, gooey mass much like mud – a mixture of water and soil. When they are done, they kneel around the body, heads dipped and faces turned downward. 

For a while nothing else happens, and Clarke tries her best to hide the restlessness that builds from standing still for too long. She looks at Lincoln, gives him a sideways glance, afraid to move her head. He mouths a silent “wait”. 

So Clarke waits. 

And while she waits, she wishes she knew what she was waiting for. Or at least for how long. She waits long enough to contemplate how silence sometimes feels like noise. 

Just as Clarke is about to sneak another glance at Lincoln, two of the High Priests rise to their feet – The Master of Fire and The Master of Wind. They take a stand on each side of Titus, both pressing their palms against his mud-covered chest. Slowly, colorless flames crawl from his chest and along his body until the flames encompass him entirely. Then the two High Priests return to their spot where they resume their kneeling position. 

As if on cue the plaza awakens. The crowd begins to move about, and voices rise to a gentle humming. A small gathering joins the high priests to kneel around Titus’ body. 

“The fire will burn for a full sunraun.” In a hushed voice Lincoln answers a question Clarke did not know she had. She looks at him, eyes shining with a mixture of confusion and heartbreak. He places a hand on her back to guide her to a more secluded area, and as they walk, he explains. “The Masters will stay by the body until it's all but ashes, but everyone else is free to go as they please. Heda didn't teach you about this?”

“No.” Clarke looks over her shoulder, brow furrowed as she looks at Lexa's kneeling form. Concealed by a black robe and the duty of Heda is a broken heart and an exhausted soul. In this instant, Clarke does not care for the many rituals she has yet to learn about, she cares only for her soulbound’s well-being. “Does Lexa have to stay too?” 

“No. Heda’s only obligation is to call the beginning of the ritual.”

“Will it look bad if I left?”

“No. You were here, you showed your respects. During the next sunraun many will visit the plaza to do the same, the amount of time spent here isn't important.”

“I think…” Clarke stops and looks around. People are milling about, some more affected by the ritual than others, and it becomes clear to her that no one is paying her any attention. Relief washes over her, but with it comes a wave of new emotions. Everything is amplified. Heartbreak and exhaustion and anxiety. Blue lights. Shivers. Nausea. 

“Clarke.” Lincoln sounds concerned. 

“I, uh, I'm fine, Lincoln.” She looks up into his eyes, overwhelmed by the softness. Her mind wanders to the suite on the eighth floor of the tower – a place away from everyone, but still close to Lexa. “I just, I’m gonna lay down for a while. Can you… Will you make sure she knows where I am?”

“Of course.”

 

°*°

 

 

Darkness encompasses her. An endless void of nothingness that caresses her skin and sucks the warmth from her body. 

She closes her eyes. Inhales, holds it in, exhales. 

A current of air, so frail it barely exists, twirls around her. It begins at her feet and snakes its way up her body as if climbing an invisible spiral staircase. It tightens around her throat like a rope. She lifts a hand to claw at it, but… nothing. Her fingers meet the cold skin of her neck, and her eyes shoot open, wide and terrified. 

Blue.

Two blue lights appear in the dark, instantly fading out. 

The rope tightens. 

Breathing becomes harder.

A scream builds in her lungs, but it stays there, forced back by the lack of air. 

The darkness grows darker. Blacker than black. Colder. 

More endless void. 

More nothing.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello, hey!
> 
> Just a quick note to say THANK YOU to all of you for being patient, supportive readers while I fix myself.  
> Your kind words are much appreciated <3
> 
> And also thank you for the very nice comments you always leave me.
> 
> Now, let's move on. Last chapter was The Sunraun of Honor - Titus' funeral. I think it's about time to bring Clarke and Lexa together again, don't you think?
> 
> Here! Enjoy! Let me know what you think <3  
> ~anonbeme

# VIII

 

 

The room is dark and silent as Lexa shuts the door behind her. She lets the robe slide off her shoulders and onto the floor, and then she bends over to take off her shoes. Her usually deft fingers are fumbling with the laces, and she almost trips in the robe she cannot see when she steps out of the shoes. She straightens her spine and allows the lack of light to wrap around her aching body and her shredded soul. It stings her eyes, and she squeezes them shut for a moment as she allows the numbness to take control once again. Then she walks the five steps to the bed in which she knows she will find a sleeping Clarke. 

Lexa slides under the blanket, her back turned to Clarke. Her heart thuds heavily in her chest, powerful enough to make her worry that it might wake up Clarke. She draws in a slow breath and finds comfort in the way it seeps from her lungs, controlled and steady like the sun on the horizon. An arm encircles her waist, and warm, languid lips press against her shoulder. Judged by Clarke's heavy breathing, if ever she was awake, she has dozed off again. It fills Lexa with relief, enough to also make her feel guilty. 

A tear escapes the corner of her eye.

Her next breath is shaky, but even with livid images from the events at the gray mountain tormenting her, she manages to find comfort in Clarke's arms. Just enough to allow sleep to pull her in. 

 

°*°

 

 

The world trembles.

The world is pitch black and it trembles and it squeezes around her throat. 

Somewhere between half awake and still achingly immobile, Lexa realizes the world is tragically still; the movements are caused by the body shuddering against her. 

“Clarke,” she mumbles. Her muscles are stiff and sore, and she grits her teeth as she pushes against the mattress to turn around. 

Lexa feels more than sees Clarke scratching at her throat, and she grips around her wrist to make sure she does not harm herself. “Clarke.” Lexa's voice is firm, awake, but Clarke continues to gasp for air as if choking. 

“Clarke!” In one swift movement, Lexa is on her knees, a light stone in the corner already activated and a hand pressed against Clarke's chest. 

Flashes of Costia dying in her arms because she could not heal her intrude her mind. 

No! 

“Clarke!”

Lexa sees Clarke's eyes flutter, and reality comes crashing down; Clarke is dreaming. Lexa frames her face with both her hands. “Come on, Clarke, wake up,” she breathes, her voice catching softness, but worry still trembling on her lips.

With a sharp gasp, Clarke's eyes shoot open. Wide and filled with terror they fleet around the room, and once they latch onto Lexa, they fill with tears that spill from the corners like a river crashing through a dam.

Lexa wipes the tears from her cheeks, ignoring how tightly Clarke is clutching at her wrists. “You are okay,” she murmurs and presses a kiss to her forehead – clammy skin against her lips. She feels Clarke draw in a shaky breath, hears the desperation on her exhale, and when Clarke starts to shake, she pulls her closer, wrapping her arms around her.

Lexa holds on tight. And she keeps holding on tight long after Clarke's breathing evens out. And when her own muscles begin to shake from the straining position on her knees, she still holds on tight.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispers, weakly pushing against her chest, but Lexa keeps holding on. Rationally, she knows Clarke is not dying, because it would mean she would be dying, too. But the fear of loss still makes her heart beat dangerously fast, and she needs Clarke close to calm it down. 

“Dreamcatcher,” Clarke says, pushing again.

This time Lexa lets go. She is out the bed before Clarke settles into a sitting position, and back again with a cup of water and a bottle of dreamcatcher before Clarke can voice a protest. 

Clarke drinks it in one go, her face twisting at the bitter aftertaste, and Lexa takes the cup from her shaky hands and places it on the floor. She then takes a seat next to Clarke, silently waiting for a cue – a sigh, a nod, a shrug, anything. Does Clarke want to talk about the dream, or does she want to go back to sleep? The deep crinkle between ocean blue eyes seem to ask the same thing, so Lexa waits a little longer. She leans back against the headrest and runs a careful hand along Clarke's spine and leaves it resting at the small of her back. Her own exhaustion pulls at her eyelids, but she refuses to give in until she knows Clarke is alright. 

“Is there more than one reaper?” Clarke’s voice is croaky and raw as it breaks the silence. 

“No,” Lexa says, and although she should be certain of the truth of her answer, the word is drawn out with hesitation. “Did you dream of the reaper?”

“No, I…” Clarke huffs and drops her head into her hands. She rubs her eyes, and her cheeks, and huffs once more. She shakes her head and says, “Never mind,” her shoulders slumping with resignation. 

“Clarke.” A silent plea to let her in. 

“It's okay, I'm fine.”

Lexa can hear the lie, and the fear, and she wishes so badly to hear what Clarke is really thinking. But then blue eyes look at her, and a soft voice says, “How about you, how are you holding up?” and Lexa suddenly understands the need to push all the emotions aside. 

“I will be fine,” Lexa replies, “after sleep.” 

If the way Clarke briefly freezes is anything to go by, she can hear Lexa’s lie as well. 

“Let’s sleep, then.” Clarke lies back down, but Lexa shows no intention of following her. 

Lexa’s body seems paralyzed, her eyes unable to look away from the drawn curtains. There is a world on the other side, a reality that has taken a horrible turn in a very short amount of time. If Lexa were to step out onto the balcony, she would be able to see the Four High Priests surrounding Titus’ body as the Fire of Purity cleanses his body and his soul. Far away from here, there is a new portal which they cannot control, and it has proven to be lethal if not approached carefully. They are searching with blind eyes, and fumbling with skinless hands. By now, Indra will have the perimeter set up, and Lexa tells herself that no news is good news. They are doing what they can to regain control, but a voice in the back of her mind tells her, that she needs a Translator, not only to understand this new enemy from within the mountain, but to triumph against them as well. 

“Lexa.”

Warm fingers wrap around her hand, and the soft tug pulls her out of her thoughts. She looks down at Clarke. Tired eyes are framed by a wildness of blond hair that seems to never want to settle on a direction. There is a large hole in Lexa’s chest filled with anger and sadness and a growing weakness, but when Clarke looks at her like this, like she would fight Lexa’s demons with her bare hands if it came to it, Lexa forgets about her darkness.

Clarke tugs at Lexa’s hand once more and tells her to turn around. As Clarke pulls a blanket over their bodies, it seems she also puts a lid on the large hole in Lexa’s chest. 

For now, at least. 

“Can we leave the light on?” Clarke asks.

“Mhm,” Lexa hums, already half asleep. She feels Clarke’s lips on her shoulder and fingers combing through her hair as they undo her braid. Her mind has slipped into a fog-like state where nothing is quite clear anymore. Somewhere in the distance she hears a murmured _love you_ and she clings to it with all she has left. Whatever darkness that has seeped into both of their hearts is still lurking in the corners, but for now, it keeps its distance.

For now, at least.

 

°*°

 

 

Lexa's eyes crack open to a dimly lit room. Through a haze of confusion she looks around, blinking as it dawns on her that she slept at the tower. The room is quiet. Too quiet. Lexa moves a hand to the empty side of the bed, the sheets still carrying a hint of Clarke's body heat. It raises a conflict within her as she realizes she is left on her own with the darkness in her mind. The need to be comforted against the need to be left alone. The need to break against the need to stay strong for her people. How desperately she needs to quell the darkness, and how terrified she is to only make it worse – as it did when she mourned Costia. 

Her arms burn as she pushes herself up into a sitting position. She leans against the headrest and rubs her face with aching hands. She needs a plan. If Indra’s perimeter can keep these men of the mountain from infiltrating their territory, they have already come far. But the portal needs to be controlled as well, and Lexa still does not know what they are up against. 

She needs her Translator. 

She needs–

“You're awake.” 

Clarke enters the room. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed by Lexa's knees, close to her, but not too close to overwhelm her, and for some reason it makes Lexa want to cry. Her eyes fall to the hand that rests on her thigh, and when that makes it worse, they fall to the basket in Clarke's other hand. For just a moment, Lexa wishes she could hide her emotions from Clarke. She does not want to feel anything, and the weight of Clarke’s hand makes it impossible not to.

“I brought food. And Nyko threw some of his magical potions in there as well,” Clarke says, lifting the basket onto the bed. 

The words ‘magical potions’ are laced with a playful voice that is usually accompanied by a curl of her lips, and Lexa cannot help herself as she lifts her gaze to look its way. Clarke's eyes are smiling, too. A careful, melancholic smile. 

“And flameberries,” Clarke says. Lexa does nothing but look at her, so Clarke digs into the basket to get a handful of Lexa's favorite snack and a bottle of Nyko’s herb blend – when Clarke learned it had no name she dubbed it Kickstarter. “Drink up.”

Lexa makes a face. She wraps her fingers around the bottle, pulls out the cork, and downs the content in one, big, dreadful gulp. It tastes of grass and dust, and it smells a bit sour, and the thick, dark green liquid clings to the inside of her mouth as if its life depended on it. She makes another face, and a displeased groan. Flameberries are greedily chewed to quell the foul taste. 

“Water?” Clarke asks, already on her feet. 

Lexa nods, her mouth incapable of forming words. She watches Clarke disappear into the bathroom and return with a cup full of water. That, too, Lexa downs in one, large gulp. In the meantime, Clarke pulls the curtains aside to let in sunlight, and Lexa squints, seeing nothing but the silhouette of a beautiful woman against warm light. 

Lexa slides out of bed, her head spinning as she straightens her spine. She walks up to Clarke and kisses a ‘Mochof’ into her hair and steps up to the balcony door. She does not open it, but she leans in as close as she can get without touching the glass. The angle is too narrow to see the entire plaza, but the back is busier than usual with men and women either on their way to pay their respects to Titus, or on their way back home. 

“It's a beautiful ceremony,” Clarke says, taking a stand next to Lexa.

Lexa swallows the lump in her throat and nods. She finds that although the voices from the plaza do not travel through the glass, she can still hear them. _’Yu gonplei ste odon.’_ And while she knows they are whispered, or murmured at best, they come at her with such force it knocks the wind out of her. Again and again and again. 

“What happened?”

Lexa hesitates to answer, not because she does not trust Clarke with the truth, but because she does not want to relive it. Clarke squeezes her hand in resignation and turns to leave, but Lexa stops her. 

“We cleared the area. There were no threats, so we approached the obelisks. They…” Lexa narrows her eyes at the horizon. Far away the tip of the gray mountain rises above tree tops and pierces the sky. Lexa cannot help the thought that it will forever stand there as a reminder of Titus’ fall – taunting her. 

“Titus saw nothing out of the ordinary, but he sensed a strange energy. He was enthralled, he wanted to examine it, so he touched it.”

“The obelisk?” 

Lexa nods, broken and weak. Her next words are barely a whisper. “I realized it too late. I could not stop him.”

“It killed him?”

“I assume the man we found died the same way.”

“Lexa,” Clarke whispers, aching and soft, and Lexa feels Clarke's hands wrap around her clenching fist and prying her fingers free.

“I realized too late…”

“It's not your fault.”

The horizon with its taunting mountain peak slides back into view. The way Titus’ body shook when he touched the obelisk comes back full force, and Lexa squeezes her eyes in an attempt to shake it out of her mind. 

“I released the reaper,” Lexa says, the words pushed through gritted teeth in an almost hiss. 

“Don't do that,” Clarke says, the anger in her voice prompting Lexa to look at her. Blue eyes thunder, and Lexa feels the urge to apologize, but she does not know what for. “ _We_ released the reaper because _we_ had no choice. _You_ didn't kill Titus. _I_ killed Ontari, remember? _I’m_ the m–”

A sharp inhale. Clarke swallows a truth too painful to face. 

Lexa's heart plummets to the ground. Clarke stands before her, trembling and wide-eyed. Without hesitation, Lexa takes her face in her hands, softly at first, but when Clarke averts her eyes, Lexa tightens her hold to make sure Clarke stays put.

“You are Clarke Griffin, the keeper of Praimfaya, and although you may not like it, you are the legend of Wanheda. I love _all_ of you. I respect, and I honor _all of you_.” 

Clarke pulls away, or tries to. She pushes against Lexa’s abdomen. Lexa lets go of her face, but only to grab her hands. 

“Anyone can take a life,” Lexa says. “You do not need to be Wanheda for that. But these hands can save a life, and they are your hands. _Yours_.” Lexa presses a kiss into both of Clarke’s palms, and Clarke slumps forward, her forehead resting against Lexa’s collarbone, their joined hands trapped between their bodies.

Clarke does not cry, but Lexa senses the resistance and how fiercely she fights to keep the emotions at bay. If only Clarke could see for herself how strong she has become…

“I'm sorry,” Clarke says and lifts her head. “I didn't mean to–”

Lexa kisses her silent with soft lips and unapologetic eyes. “I know.”

This is not the first time Clarke has doubted herself, and it will not be the last either. But for every time Clarke breaks, Lexa will be there to mend the pieces back together until she will be strong enough to do so herself. That is Lexa's silent promise. 

“Anything I can do for you?”

“You did more than enough already.”

“Okay. I have a message from Anya.”

“A message?” In a heartbeat, Lexa morphs into Heda. “Did something happen?” 

“No, not that I know of. But Indra is back, and she will see you upstairs when you’re ready. But you’re not allowed to show your pretty little face until you've eaten every crumb in that basket. Anya’s words.” 

Lexa scowls at the basket still sitting on the bed. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself,” she mutters, as she crosses the floor. From the basket she picks a sandwich. Then she goes back and kisses Clarke on the forehead, offering her a bite. 

“Best not challenge Anya’s order. She's psychic, that one,” Clarke teases with a grin. 

“I will protect you,” Lexa says, waving the sandwich in front of Clarke's nose. The smell of herb butter that invades the space between them is mouth watering, and she knows Clarke will give in long before her teeth sinks into the sandwich.

“You'll lose,” Clarke says, muffled by half chewed sandwich.

“I know her weakness.” Lexa flashes her a quick, beaming smile before biting into the sandwich herself.

Clarke laughs. “I don't believe you.”

Lexa confirms with a secretive smirk. She kisses Clarke on the forehead once more and takes a deep breath. “I must go.”

“I know.”

They share another smile, one that morphs into a melancholic truth. Then Lexa slides past Clarke and into the bathroom to freshen up. She takes a moment to look herself in the mirror. She squares her shoulders and sets her jaw, and when her eyes no longer itch, she takes to braiding her hair. On her way out she slides on Heda's coat.


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you!  
> Those of you who follow me on tumblr already knows I had to take a break from writing because real life was being unkind to me. I'm still not fully back yet, but I wanted to wish all of you a (belated) merry christmas and a happy new year.
> 
> So here is chapter 9 <3
> 
> If you need a quick summary of previous events:  
> Clarke witnessed Titus' funeral and there's that odd nightmare/vision that keeps intruding her mind. Meanwhile Lexa is broken and lost. Not only does she have to deal with this new portal that has shown up, she's now also without a Translator.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this chapter even though it's been a while since I gave you chapter 8.  
> ~anonbeme
> 
> Ps. I want to send an extra special thank you to the two secret helpers that do invaluable beta work on this story <3 <3

# IX

 

 

Lexa walks down the narrow corridor that leads to Jossiah’s cell. Light stones leave a dim trail to follow, still, the surrounding space seems dark and heavy. The air feels dirty against her skin and toxic in her lungs. She walks a slow, but steady pace, using what little time she has left to compose herself. 

Almost there. 

Lexa clenches her hands into fists, then flexes her fingers, just once, to release some of the tension in her body. She takes a deep breath letting it flow all the way into her fingertips until her hands yet again rest by her thighs. In the back of her mind she hears the ghost of Clarke’s voice: _‘break a leg’_. Even if Lexa ignores the reverse logic behind the odd Polis City good luck wish, she can still feel Clarke's presence in her bones – it works like a good luck charm in itself. Still, a part of her would much rather break an actual leg than what she is about to do. 

She stops in front of Jossiah’s cell like many times before, but the usual _‘Hello, Jossiah’_ does not fall from her lips. For some reason it does not seem to fit the situation at hand. She considers her options. Begging is off the table. Jossiah feels no compassion toward Heda. Besides, Heda is a negotiator, not a coward. She could attempt to reason with him, and while it may be her best option, it seems futile. Jossiah lives by his own set of rules. He is an intelligent man who would see right through anyone who tried to manipulate him into doing something he already turned down once. 

There is a frustrated sigh below the surface, and it wants to be released. It fights with its claws and fangs, but Lexa refuses to yield; she _needs_ to keep her emotions under control when facing Jossiah. To buy herself time she turns her back to him, in no rush as she raises a hand to activate the light stone on the wall. A single thought runs through her mind: If the safety of her people and the kru world depended on it, she would not hesitate to do whatever is necessary. Even if it means forcing Jossiah’s hand. 

But Jossiah is the Translator – chosen by the elements – so he deserves the truth. That is all Lexa has to offer – honesty.

Lexa shakes off her black coat and hangs it on a protruding rock. She pulls the sleeves of her sand-colored shirt up to her elbows and takes a seat on the ground, back resting against the wall, and arms resting on her bent knees. 

Jossiah’s cell is black and silent. Lexa leans her head against the wall as she observes the shape of a man she cannot clearly see. Words fail her. Truth, and honesty, and honorable intentions clog her throat and dry the inside of her mouth. She focuses on the gritty metal bars and pictures that set of cold, blue eyes staring right back at her with a wild rage. She stares at the bars for so long that reality is turned upside down. _She_ is the guilty one, the one being punished. _She_ is the one behind bars, and Jossiah is on the outside, a free man looking down at her. She deserves it for what she did. The darkness that lives in the dungeon wraps around her, and it brings her a kind of comfort she never knew she needed. There is no room for utopian dreams, only the raw, hurtful truth that sometimes you are forced to choose between two bad outcomes. The curse of being a leader, the downside to the mark of Praimfaya. If it means the safety of her people then Lexa will carry that burden at all times, but for now, for this moment, she allows the storm to pick her up and thrash her against the wall. She welcomes the pain. 

“Pardon my french, Heda.” A gruff voice, deep and torn from not being used, breaks the silence. “You look like shit.”

“Mochof,” Lexa says, looking beyond the bars with humorless eyes. It does not matter whether or not she can see him, the idea of holding his gaze is enough. 

An amused humming flows from Jossiah’s corner. Silence stretches time. It takes Lexa's emotions – the guilt, the self-hatred, the anger, the sadness – and twists them into one large knot so tight it seems it can never come undone again. Lexa's eyes drift from what is tangible and right in front of her, and they wander into the cracks of her mind. 

“You want something,” Jossiah says, bringing Lexa back to reality.

“Sha, Jossiah. I need something from you.”

“No.”

“For now it only requires that you listen, and while I know you do not care what I have to say, I am afraid you have no choice. _I_ have no choice.”

Jossiah shifts, the noise of his movements meets Lexa's ears before he comes into sight. He moves toward her in a crouching manner, limber, and with intent. It reminds Lexa of a predator, but she is not shaken. This is Jossiah’s game. He is not a killer, but he wants his enemies to think he is. He takes a seat, legs crossed, close enough to lean his forehead against the metal bears. His hair is greasy – sweat mingled with dirt. His clothes are not much different. He looks like a shadow, a man who gave up on life a long time ago. But his eyes are alive. They are burning with that icy fire of his as he meets Lexa's gaze. The dungeons have not broken him yet. As far as Lexa is concerned, they never will. 

“I will listen, but my answer is still no.”

Lexa copies him. She shifts from resting against the wall to sit cross-legged in front of him. She watches him for a moment, and his hands come up to wrap around the bars. He smiles at her. arrogance curling his lips. Something snaps inside Lexa. She wants to surge forward and grab Jossiah by the throat and pull his face hard against the metal bars. Clenching her jaw, she forces the intrusion out of her mind. It would be counterproductive. 

She will not play his game.

“Soon I am leaving to go to the gray mountain. I need you there with me.”

“No.”

“Whether you come as a free man or a prisoner is up to you.”

Jossiah scoffs. “You must be delusional to think–”

“I _need_ you there. Do you understand what I am saying? I hoped this day would never come, because I want to respect your request to be left alone. But I do not have that choice anymore. Neither do you.”

Jossiah’s nostrils flare. “No.”

“Go on. Ask me what is waiting for you at the gray mountain,” Lexa says, her voice catching a dangerous tone. She means it to be a challenge, and a part of her wants nothing more than for Jossiah to take the bait and step right into her trap. She wants him to give her a reason to snap; to have all this be done and over with.

Jossiah’s eyes grow hard. Lexa's grow harder. Frustration flashes across his face, and Lexa lets herself believe she has won the first round. But then Jossiah’s demeanor weakens, his eyes grow distant, and he loosens his grip around the bars. His body is retreating back into the darkness of his cell, but Lexa reaches forward and grabs a hold of his wrist holding him in place.

“I would very much like it if you would come willingly,” Lexa says, almost not recognizing the humility that found its way to her voice. She observes him, the way he looks at her hand with impatience and confusion. She sees him shake his head gently, a gesture no doubt meant for himself. 

“Tell me. Tell me what’s waiting for me at the gray mountain.”

“A new portal has been discovered.”

Icy blue eyes bore into Lexa’s soul. For a fleeting moment Lexa recognizes the warrior behind his mask. The scar that trails down his cheek is a souvenir he received in battle. His body may have fallen, but his soul is not done fighting. There is _something_ in his eyes that tells Lexa that he understands the implications of her words. More so than what is expected of a man who has lived in Polis City most of his life. 

“What happened to Titus?”

“He touched the obelisk.”

A sound falls from Jossiah’s lips. A huff of air that sounds like the beginning of a taunting laugh. But it slips back into silence soon enough. Jossiah looks at Lexa with a satisfied smile dancing at the corner of his mouth. “Are you telling me your Translator touched a newly-emerged obelisk? And what, he died?”

The thunder in Lexa’s eyes seems to hold the truth that hurts too much to speak, but it does nothing to put a lid on Jossiah’s excitement.

“That old fool. Of course. You know, I told him once, his methods are outdated.” 

“Outdated?” Lexa’s hand has somehow slipped from its grip around Jossiah’s wrist. Both her hands are now latched onto the barrier between them in a tight, merciless hold. Her knuckles are white, and she grits her teeth as to ignore the smirk on Jossiah’s face when he notices.

“Tell me, _Heda_. Did your Translator know about you and Jake’s daughter?” Jossiah leans his forehead against the bar just above Lexa’s hand. He allows for Lexa to digest his words, and when she furrows her brow, he adds, “My guess is you never told him.”

Their faces are only a few inches from each other. Lexa can smell his breath. It reeks worse than the dungeon itself. She racks her brain for any clue to uncover the intention behind his words, but before she can ask him, he pushes against the bars and lets go. Lexa watches him slide back into his corner of darkness, and she cannot help the thought that he won this round. She has made no progress at all.

“If she dies, you die,” Jossiah sing-songs under his breath. 

Lexa feels a chill run up her spine. “How do you know?” she demands.

Silence. 

Lexa's heart pounds against her chest. She tightens her hands around the bars in an attempt to hold on to the last shred of self control Jossiah has not yet managed to take from her. 

“My answer is still no,” Jossiah says, ignoring her question. 

The definitive tone is one Lexa knows very well. He ends all their conversations with that tone – no matter the topic, no matter the length. In one swift motion, Lexa is on her feet, spine rank and chin held high. She puts on her coat. Without sparing Jossiah another glance, she says, “You will join me at the gray mountain.” Then she touches the light stone and walks away. 

 

°*°

 

 

Loving Lexa is easy. It happens entirely on its own, and in quantities so grand that sometimes Clarke feels nothing else. It shows when Lexa cracks a soft smile so far from the stoicism she carries around as Heda. Clarke cannot help but melt and glow and be picked up and soar through the sky. It is exhilarating, and sometimes so powerful that Clarke mistakes it for fear. Any love Clarke ever held for another person before Lexa now seems pallid and unimportant, and she cannot help but think that maybe her soul always knew it belonged to someone else.

It makes her feel infinitely small. 

But also extraordinary, and significant.

It creates a conflict Clarke does not know how to handle. The urge to run off and never look back sometimes overwhelms her, but she already tried that, and failed miserably. Then out of nowhere, she will feel a warmth flow through her, like a newly born sunrise that spills golden light across the land. She recognizes it as the part of Lexa she always carries around – always will, no matter how far apart they are.

It brings her back to the beginning: Loving Lexa is easy.

Clarke sometimes sneaks into the room on the ninth floor – Heda's office. She will climb the stairs and lay an ear against the door that only presents itself to those who carry Heda's mark. If she hears muffled voices, she leaves. If the room is empty, she enters. She will study the map on the wall and trace its landmarks with curious fingertips and marveling eyes. Or she will step onto the balcony and lean against the railing as she maps the dips and peaks on the horizon. 

Her favorite time is when the sun is behind her. If she stays long enough, she will find that the shadow of the tower has moved like the hand of a clock. She once told Lexa that the tower is basically a sun dial; if you trace the position of the shadow you can keep track of time. The frown that awoke on Lexa’s face had made Clarke chuckle and press a kiss to her jaw. The need to measure time in hours and minutes is obviously not found in kru DNA. But sometimes when Clarke's thoughts are running wild, and all she needs is to take a step back and slow down, it helps to watch time pass by while standing still. Those are the times Clarke sneaks into the room on the ninth floor.

The best part of the room is found in the middle: the stones in the floor that make up the shape of Heda's mark. Clarke likes to sit in the center and watch the colors shimmer around her. Lexa says the stones absorb the emotions our bodies radiate and translates them into colors, and that two bodies do not necessarily share the same color scheme, but any change in their emotions will always show. To Clarke it sounds like magic, and nothing Lexa says can take that away from her. 

A ring of blue surrounds Clarke. She sits cross-legged and observes how the color that represents her calmness flows like soft, tiny waves around her. Once in a while a sharp peak of white interferes with the harmony, and with it comes a flash of the blue lights in the back of Clarke's mind. Her breath catches in her throat by the memory of being choked in her dreams. She focuses on her breathing, and as air expands her lungs, the calm, blue waves return. 

There is a noise from the door as it slides open. Clarke is on her feet facing the incoming party before they fully enter. Their voices reach Clarke first. 

“–to set up a camp. Fully functional. How long would it take?”

“I already made preparations. We are ready in half a sunraun.”

“Good. Thank you, Indr– Clarke?”

Lexa stops inside the room, surprise evident on her face as she looks at Clarke. The door swings shut, and Indra takes up her position next to Lexa. Apologies are ready at the tip of Clarke's tongue, but what comes out is far from one. 

“You're leaving again?” 

“Yes.” Lexa says in a matter-of-fact tone. 

“I'm going with you.”

“No.”

“Yes, I am. If Nyko couldn't save Titus, then you need me there.”

“Clarke, it is dangerous. I cannot–”

“She is right,” Indra says, causing both Clarke and Lexa to stare at her. Neither seem to be entirely sure who she is referring to. “Heda, we will protect her as we protect you. I do not like it either, for the same reasons as you, but she is right. We need the strongest healers we can get. You know this as well as I do.”

A long moment passes where Lexa looks from Indra to Clarke. Her hands are clenched fists hanging at her sides, and Clarke wants to take them in her hands and caress them with her fingertips till they once again relax. But as much as Lexa would appreciate it, Heda would not. So Clarke stays still, fights the urge, says nothing, and awaits Heda's verdict. 

“I will consider it,” Lexa says, but Clarke knows that tone in her voice. Protective, uncompromising, and self-righteous – the decision has already been made, and not in Clarke’s favor. 

Lexa walks up to the map initiating a staring contest with the landmarks near the gray mountain.

“Jossiah listens to Clarke,” Indra says.

“I will consider it,” Lexa repeats, but this time after a moment’s hesitation.


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you.  
> Not a day goes by without me thinking about this verse. I write at a snail's pace at the moment... but I'm writing. And every single word I add to this verse adds a bit of warmth to my tired heart. I am deeply sorry that my usual once a week updates has turned to a rarity seen only once in a full moon. But I cherish every single read, kudo, and comment I get.
> 
> Thank you! <3  
> For your patience, and for your support.
> 
> Last chapter:   
> Lexa went to have a talk with Jossiah at the dungeons, and Clarke sought a moment of peace on the 9th floor of the tower. Lexa is planning another expedition to the mountain, and Clarke insisted to go. Lexa said no, Indra adviced her to reconsider.
> 
> And here it is.... Chapter 10.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.  
> ~anonbeme

# X

 

 

The summit of the gray mountain lifts its face above the treetops. It smiles up at the sun that showers the world in golden hues. The forest floor is lush and green, and a choir of soft chirping fills the air. It seems a fitting scene for a peaceful walk were it not for the newly risen tents that cover the forest floor. The army of dirt green canvases cast an eerie shade upon the romance. 

The camp has been established.

There is a clearing in the trees, an open space that soaks up the sun. It makes up the center of the camp with a cooking and eating area, a healers tent, and a training pit. The tents that hide between the trees serve two purposes. Those closest to the center function as storage – food, clothes, tools – and those in the periphery serves as temporary homes for Lexa’s expedition crew.

The site was carefully chosen. The gray mountain is a quarter of a sunraun away, and although Lexa wished to set up closer to the portal, she needed the advantages this spot provided. They are close to a river, a source of clean water, and still close enough to flourishing soil for their Gatherers to be able to fetch fresh supplies while still operating within the secured perimeter. The camp is exposed from all directions, but scouts and guards are patrolling the periphery. There is only one path to and from the gray mountain, and should any intruder come from the portal toward them, they will know long before they reach the open space. They may be exposed from all directions, but it also gives Lexa the opportunity to easily retreat long before any threat would reach them. This is her territory, and it gives her an advantage. 

Lexa steps into the clearing. She greets the occasional passerby with a small nod and then goes back to observing her surroundings. All stations are up and running. With Indra pulling the strings Lexa expected nothing less. The large number of people in the camp worries her. Whatever they find at the gray mountain will spread like a wildfire – like rumors that may or may not be true. But Indra had argued that they would need a full force should the men from the mountain suddenly attack. Best case, they go to the gray mountain and deactivate the portal without incident, and everyone would return home to continue their quiet, peaceful lives. Worst case, they go to the gray mountain and are not strong enough to hold the intruders back. Lexa and Indra both agree that these strangers are not to be underestimated, thus they are now here, managing a full force ready to take on whatever threat awaits them. Come what may. This is not the time to doubt oneself. They are stronger together, and they will face this strange foe together. They will triumph together, or they will fall together. There is no inbetween.

“Heda.” Indra greets, moving in from the side to take a stand next to Lexa. “How was your journey?”

“Long,” Lexa says. She gives her surroundings one last glance before turning to Indra with an exasperated look. “Jossiah does not want a tent. He specifically asked to be chained to a tree.”

Indra breaks a knowing smile. “I dare not ask.”

“He refuses to claim the title as my Translator, and being chained to a tree – for everyone to see – somehow manifests that.”

Indra chuckles, gently shaking her head. “He cannot unclaim it. It is in his blood.”

“Perhaps he will demand a blood transfusion as well,” Lexa grumbles. Her eyes catch two guards herding Jossiah across the clearing toward the biggest tree in the field. Jossiah willingly sits down against the tree trunk and holds up his hands for the guards to tie him up. Once they are done, Jossiah meets Lexa’s gaze. He sends her a smirk of defiance that makes her want to snap his neck. In return she sends him a smirk of her own, the same smirk she sent him when she ordered her guards to throw him in the river and to be as gentle – or not – as they pleased. Jossiah had refused to clean himself up, but he smelled of death and looked even worse. Lexa did it, stripped him of his dignity as he so blatantly put it, as a favor to anyone so unkindly forced to be in the proximity of the feeling rebel. 

“Do you worry of what they will think?” Indra asks, referring to the men and women sending questioning glances in Jossiah’s direction.

“Yes.” 

Jossiah’s past is not forgotten. There may be people in this camp who want Jossiah to pay for whatever harm he may have caused them or their families in the past. For that reason Lexa has ordered guards by his side at all times. It is a manageable situation and not the cause of Lexa’s worry. The real cause is Jossiah’s position as her Translator. She has not yet made an official announcement. Everyone knows that Titus’ death means a new Translator is to be appointed. No one knows it is Jossiah, not yet, but they will eventually. Why else would she bring a prisoner with her to the gray mountain? It takes just one person to put the pieces together, and Lexa knows it will happen soon. She will deal with it when it does. The truth is, Jossiah is her Translator whether he wants it or not, an irrevocable truth which the entire kru world will have to face sooner or later. A part of her wishes that being faced with the portal at the gray mountain will make Jossiah change his mind, or at least loosen him up a bit. Hope is the smallest of flames in the dark, but it has not yet been quelled, and Lexa clings to it because it is all she has left. Truthfully, she is at a loss without her Translator.

Turning her back to Jossiah, Lexa gives Indra a somber look. “But I worry more about the gray mountain.”

“We have come prepared this time.”

Lexa nods, but it is hesitant and weak. Indra is right, but Lexa cannot help but take notice of the irking sensation that creeps up her spine. They are as prepared as can be, yes, but is it enough? She thinks, perhaps, she sees the very same question swim in the eyes of her second in command. Not knowing what to say, Lexa looks up into the sky and releases a heavy breath. She looks at Indra once more and nods, this time deliberate and confident. 

Something behind Lexa catches Indra’s attention. Even before Indra speaks, Lexa know what it is – _who_ it is.

“How did she take it?”

“Forcing three guards upon her at all times? Not well.” 

“Octavia and Bellamy?” Indra sounds surprised. The siblings are usually assigned to Polis City, and although they have guarded Clarke before, they are never first choice on expeditions on kru land.

“They work well with Lincoln,” Lexa says, and when Indra gives her the look that says _’you cannot fool me, young one’_ , she adds, “and I hope their friendship will make Clarke feel more at ease. More… cooperative.”

“Ah,” Indra hums. An amused huff follows. “I see. Is that why you brought Aden as well?”

“No.” A graveness awakens in Lexa’s eyes. “I must prepare for all outcomes. If I fail… He needs to be here, to experience this, to learn, and–”

“It will not come to that, Heda.”

“We cannot predict the future, Indra.”

This time the hesitant nod belongs to Indra. She, too, looks to the sky, and based on the way her lips twitch, Lexa knows it did not provide her with any answers either.

“If it comes to it, I will look out for him,” Indra says, seeking Lexa's eyes again. “Just like I did with you, young one.”

 

°*°

 

Everywhere Clarke goes at least one of Lexa’s guards follow. They have decency enough to keep their distance, but there is always a set of eyes tracking her; it makes her skin crawl and her blood boil. Clarke knows very well why Lincoln, Bellamy, and Octavia are assigned to her. They are likable. Clarke enjoys their company. It makes it difficult to be mad at them, and in extension, a lot easier to be mad at Lexa. 

The guards were Lexa's compromise. Clarke accepted it, but not without a fight. Lexa had initially said no to her joining the expedition, but Clarke refused to accept that. There were arguments about safety; Lexa needing Clarke to stay home and safe, and Clarke insisting that Lexa could not afford the absence of her strongest healer. Eventually Clarke had said, “You can't stop me from going after you. Not unless you throw me in the dungeons.” It had brought thunder to Lexa’s eyes, but Clarke withstood the storm. “You’d go after me,” Clarke had then said, her voice catching a sudden softness. It chased the clouds away, and Lexa had nodded, and said, “One condition.”

One goddamn condition. 

From across the clearing, Clarke latches onto Jossiah’s stare. The irony is not lost on her. While she is free to go where she wants to go, he is chained to a tree. But between the two of them she is the one that feels like a prisoner. Worst of all, Clarke understands Lexa’s reasons. If their roles were reversed, she would do the same, but it does not mean she has to like it.

Clarke tightens her grip around the wooden bowl in her hands. It is filled with nuts and berries and a loaf of bread. She meant to go and find a secluded area, to seek a bit of quiet away from the bustling center of the camp, but instead her feet takes her forward, and they do not stop until she stands before Jossiah. He looks up at her with a raised eyebrow, the ice in his eyes sparkling under the sun. The guards by his side stay in their frozen form, eyes on everything and anything that moves in their near proximity. Clarke ignores them. She sits down in front of Jossiah and places the bowl on the grass between them. For a moment Clarke observes him. He leans against the tree, his legs criss-crossed and his hands folded in his lap. He is a thin man. His body is weak from too many days without sunlight and proper food, but his eyes burn with an unstoppable force that will never die out, least of all when all seems lost. Clarke knows only one other person like that: Lexa.

They observe each other for a moment, an odd tension building between them, not quite uncomfortable, but… also not quite pleasant. Neither are offering the first word, neither are breaking eye contact. Clarke is ashamed; she was expecting hostility, but all Jossiah radiates is curiosity. She does not blame him. Not even she knows why she is there. The moment grows into an idle state in which Clarke feels restlessness bubble under her skin. Without giving it much thought, she breaks the loaf of bread, and with an outstretched hand she offers Jossiah one half.

“Did she put you up to this?”

Clarke scoffs. “You want it or not?”

“Did she poison it?” Jossiah’s lips curl into a small smirk.

“Yes,” Clarke says, in a humorless tone. “She brought you all the way up here to have me feed you poisoned bread.”

“You’re funnier than your father,” Jossiah says, reaching out to take the bread.

It still stings when someone Clarke does not know mentions her father as if they knew him well. She misses him. She wishes she had experienced him as a kru man. Knowing that Jossiah most likely knew this part of him makes her falter. As she gives Jossiah the bread, she looks at the thin, black string that ties his hands together. It may look frail, but it is the strongest material of the kru world – not even the sharpest blade is able to cut through it. She trails the string from his wrist and to where it is tied around the tree. There are no knots. Only the most skilled Fire Wielders are able to manipulate the string, melt two ends together and melt them apart again. So even if Jossiah is able to move up to five feet away from the tree, there is no way he is able to escape. 

Clarke wonders if her father had learned that skill. He was her hero, invincible and unstoppable. He took junk and bits and bolts and wires and created beautiful things instead. He carved magnificent birds out of wood. He created a wooden chest that could only be opened by the combined energy of the mark of Praimfaya. He was not only a genius in Polis City, but a genius of the kru world as well. Maybe he was a Fire Wielder, too. Maybe not. 

“Are you sharing the berries too?” 

Jossiah’s voice pulls Clarke out of her thoughts. She looks at him and blinks. His question is long forgotten when a concern of her own suddenly jumps from her tongue. “What was my dad to you?” 

There is a frozen moment where Jossiah stops chewing while he considers how to respond. His eyes fall to the bread in his hands, and when he looks back up, a distant pain swims in his eyes. “Jake Griffin saved my life.”

Unable to control it, Clarke's eyes flicker to the scar that runs down one side of his face. Her mind has already made the assumption that maybe her father saved him from whatever gave him that scar. 

“Lincoln.” 

Clarke gives him a puzzled look. 

“The scar.” Jossiah lifts his hands to his mouth, and before he bites into the bread, he says with remorse, “I deserved it.”

Lincoln is the epitome of calm and gentleness. Whatever Jossiah did to anger him in such a manner must have been terrible. Unforgivable, even. 

Clarke watches him as he finishes the bread, eyes closed and head resting against the tree. She is frustrated with him, and she cannot pinpoint what it is. Maybe it is because he is able to relax amidst the chaos. The elements chose him, Lexa orders him around, or tries to, and everyone in camp glares at him as if he was trash. But he does not seem to care about any of it. He has claimed his freedom in an unorthodox way, accepting a life in chains where no one forces him to bow before Heda. Maybe Clarke is envious. Maybe not. Maybe Clarke is frustrated because ignoring what purpose the elements has chosen for them works for Jossiah, but not for Clarke. Maybe. Maybe not. 

And he never answered Clarke's question.

“Josh.” His chosen name in Polis City. Clarke tries really hard to keep impatience from her voice, but truthfully she does not care if she fails.

Eyes still shut, Jossiah frowns. “Clarke,” he says, copying her tone. 

“What was my dad to you?”

“He saved my life.”

“ _How?_ ” 

“You have not earned that story.”

The dismissive tone triggers something in Clarke. Sometimes Clarke's gut feeling works faster than her logical deductions. Something _clicks_. It comes to her and jumps from her mouth long before her mind picks up. 

“He knew.”

Jossiah tilts his head forward and fixates her with a cold stare. 

“He saved you because of what you meant to Heda,” Clarke says, meaning to provoke him with the assumption it was all for Heda, not Jossiah. But Clarke knows the truth. Her father saw something in Jossiah. He saw something in everyone, and would provide help wherever needed if he could. If they became friends it means Jossiah was important to him. The way anger flashes in Jossiah's eyes tells Clarke she hit a nerve, and it pleases her. 

“Leave me alone.” Jossiah leans back against the tree, shutting his eyes and shutting out the world. 

“Sure,” Clarke says, almost a sigh. She jumps to her feet and stays for a moment looking down upon the man her father saved. She sees it clearly now. The wall he has built around himself is not just a statement, but protection as well. Clarke knows how that feels. She cannot help herself; she feels sorry for him.

“My mom spoke of you as if you meant a lot to my dad. I thought you might want to know that.” Clarke waits for a response, a movement, a look, anything, but gets none. She nods at nothing in particular, turns around and walks away. “Keep the berries,” she calls over her shoulder.

 

°*°

 

Jossiah opens his eyes just enough to see the world through thin slits. The sunlight still stings, and he finds himself yearning for the darkness of the dungeons where no one bothers him – well, no one but Heda. The freedom she has offered him many times is worth nothing to him. He wants to reclaim his kru identity, build a home under the ever sun-filled sky again and just keep to himself. That is all he ever wanted. Polis City gave him a second chance. It gave him a true friend in Jake Griffin. But when Jake died, Jossiah had nothing else left in Polis City to keep him going. The deal he struck with Azgeda was meant to give him his freedom. He should have seen it coming, the betrayal. He wanted his freedom so badly it made him blind. He was a pawn in their game, and now he lives in the dungeons. Serves him right. At least the dungeon is better than Polis City. The dungeon is _his_ choice.

“Keep the berries!” 

Clarke’s voice pulls him back to his sunlit surroundings. He looks at the bowl of berries placed by his side, and his stomach growls lightly. It feels like a lifetime has passed since he last tasted flameberries. His fingers itch to pick a few from the bowl and devour them, but guilt twirls in his stomach and keeps him frozen in his spot. He lifts his gaze to watch the retreating form of Jake's daughter. He is angry with himself. And sad. The last time he spoke to Jake, he promised to look out for Clarke. Jossiah is a man of his word, and he does not make promises lightly. However, this one proves to be difficult to keep. He does not know how to keep her safe without claiming the title as Heda’s Translator. It would make the last twenty years of struggle worth nothing.

If there is a way to keep both his promises – to Jake and to himself – he will find it. For as long as his heart still beats he will look for it. He owes Jake that much. 

Jossiah picks up the bowl of berries and lifts it to his face. A sweet aroma sneaks into his nose. It overwhelms him with memories from his childhood. When his parents were still alive and he would help his mother pick fruit and nuts for their next meal. That was before. What happened that day, and what happened after… Heda could have saved them, but chose not to.

Jossiah will not allow the memories to settle. 

He takes a deep breath and pushes it all back into that corner of his mind he never visits. With an unsteady hand he picks a flameberry. When he was a boy he used to press it against the roof of his mouth, and he would feel the heat inside it pulsate against his tongue. Jossiah closes his eyes and smiles like the boy he once was as it bursts, warm juice coating his tongue. For what it is worth, he sends Clarke a silent thank you for giving him this moment.

 

°*°

 

Lexa lifts the flap of the tent to the side and peeps into the small space. Empty. Clarke had stated in a heated argument that she would be staying with the healers, but Lexa had swept it away as one of those things Clarke speaks before thinking but does not mean. Not this time. Lexa lets the lonely space swallow her, and with a heavy sigh she pulls back the flap. She lays down on the blanket that covers the dirt ground, links her fingers behind her neck and stares up into the roof. The dark green canvas wears proof of its lifetime as small, thin patches where sunlight fights to pass through. The bright green spots remind Lexa of the stars in their bedroom. It ignites a yearning in her chest that builds and keeps on building until it takes the form of a fiery tornado of flames raging through her body. In an attempt to quell it, she curls up onto her side and buries her face in the blanket. 

It does not work. 

Lexa did not expect it to.

 

°*°

 

Warmth presses against Lexa's back and envelops her with a fuzzy glow. She blinks her eyes open still heavy from sleep. 

“Clarke?” 

“Go back to sleep.”

“What are y–” Lexa groans. Her tongue is clumsy, and whatever comes out of her mouth does not sound like words at all. 

“Your emotions are really loud.” Clarke presses a gentle kiss against Lexa's shoulder. “I'm still mad at you.”

Lexa shifts to roll over, but Clarke tightens her grip around her waist. “Go back to sleep.”

The soft command washes over Lexa like sunlight. Her body is immersed in the river, and small waves travel along her body in gentle movements. Shadow singers fill the air with music.

Blue eyes smile at her. 

Lips move. 

_“Anya looked like she was ready to kill me.”_ The words sound like they come from far away. _“Joke’s on her. She'd kill you too.”_

Lexa smiles, but her body is liquid, so she cannot tell if she is successful.

_“Go back to sleep,”_ her soul murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really, really appreciate it! <3
> 
> Any comments or thoughts you may have, gimme :)  
> You can also find me on twitter (@anonbeme) and tumblr (@anonbemetoo)


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